


Absolution

by JenniferNapier



Series: Liberation [3]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, Gen, Hallucinations, Martin Escaped, Martin Escapes, Martin is free, Memories, Murder, Murder Mystery, Surgery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25029925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/pseuds/JenniferNapier
Summary: As Malcolm draws closer to solving (and most importantly, preventing) a murder, he is faced with challenges that simultaneously strain and strengthen the complicated relationship he has with his father. When it seems that they are finally operating as a team, Malcolm has to ask himself; at what cost?
Relationships: Ainsley Whitly & Martin Whitly, Gil Arroyo & Jessica Whitly, Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Mr. David | Martin Whitly's Guard, Paul Lazar | John Watkins & Martin Whitly
Series: Liberation [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718875
Comments: 88
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you are a new reader, welcome! This is Part 3 of the 'Liberation' series.
> 
> ***PLEASE read Part 1, 'Deprivation,' and Part 2, "Possession," before reading this fic.***
> 
> I promise it will make SO much more sense and that is how I intended for it to be read.

“The movers will be here tomorrow morning,” Malcolm Bright said as he strode through the halls of Claremont Psychiatric Hospital with Mr. David by his side. “It shouldn’t take them long to clear out the cell.”

The security officer buzzed them in, advising, “Watch your step.”

Malcolm watched his step, and it was a good thing he did. The plastic sheeting underfoot reminded the profiler of the pawn shop. Small piles of sky-colored paint cans and metal trays were huddled on the floor, along with some rolling sticks and even a few paint brushes. Blue painter’s tape surrounded the room in a crisp line, separating the top half of the walls from the bottom half of the walls, where a layer of old red paint awaited to be buried by its posterity.

The bookshelves were empty and moved away from the walls, where their shadows were outlined by a silhouette of dust. The desk, too, was moved away from the wall, and surrounded by boxes filled with Dr. Whitly’s books and papers. The blood-stained rug was nowhere to be seen.

“Wow. They’re eager to remodel, aren’t they?” Malcolm commented.

“They sure are,” Mr. David placidly muttered. He gestured at the buckets. “I volunteered to do the painting.”

The profiler nearly smiled as he asked, “Why?”

“I dunno,” the guard shrugged. “Maybe it’ll be therapeutic, or something. Either way, it gives me something to do on my break other than solitaire.”

Malcolm nodded. After taking a few silent moments to cast one last look at those four red walls and high windows, the consultant sighed. “Well, it hasn’t  _ officially  _ been declared yet, but.... Um. My father’s lawyer started discussing his will with me.”

Mr. David gave him a look.

“And it turns out,” Malcolm fished an envelope out of his suit jacket pocket and handed it to the guard, “He left something in it for you.” 

The envelope was made of special, expensive paper, like that of a high quality diploma or wedding invitation. Printed in the top corner was the emblem of  _ The Whitly Foundation, _ also spelled out in elegant calligraphy. A wax seal bore the same symbol. It appeared like something that royalty would mail.

Mr. David’s jaw dropped as his eyes bulged. Malcolm took advantage of his shock to slip the envelope between his fingers. After executing a couple of blinks, Mr. David finally found the voice to protest, “Malcolm, I can't…. I can't accept this.”

“You don’t exactly have a choice. Legally speaking,” Malcolm lied with a large smile. “It’s yours.”

The guard stared at the consultant, then the envelope, then the consultant again. “Martin really…?”

“He really did.” Malcolm did well to reign his smile under control. He scoffed, “I know. I was in shock, too.” He glanced at the envelope and then brought his eyes back up to the security officer. “But I’m glad he did. You deserve it.”

Mr. David shook his head, unable to speak. He was downright  _ fearful  _ of how much money was in that envelope.

“He thought of you as a friend,” Malcolm told him. “This was his ‘thank you,’ for everything you did for him.” 

The security officer knew that Malcolm was speaking truthfully. It almost moved him to tears, but he succeeded in hiding them. Malcolm smiled and stared up into the large man’s eyes as he delivered his father’s message earnestly.  _ “Thank you, _ Mr. David.”

The guard could see Dr. Whitly in his son’s smile. He could hear him in his son’s voice. It was as clear as day. For the first time, Mr. David was unable to prevent a very big smile from crossing his face. And finally, The Surgeon won an age-long bet.

“Your dad always said he’d make me smile, one day,” Mr. David chuckled, grinning. His teeth were very white, and very beautiful. “Guess that’s today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It's a short one, but I wanted to give Mr. David his own separate scene before we delve into another long chapter.
> 
> If you didn't see or heed my first note and haven't read Part 1; 'Deprivation,' or Part 2, 'Possession,' this would be a great time to actually go back and read those fics before continuing with this one. I promise, it will make the experience of reading this fic all the more understandable and meaningful.


	2. Chapter 2

“Remember darling, give them a big, _bright_ smile.”

“I know, mom.”

“We don’t need you sulking in front of the cameras, or people are gonna think you're abused.”

Dragging him along to these dinner parties practically qualified as abuse, in young Malcolm’s mind.

As their driver pulled the limousine up to the curb, Mrs. Whitly placed her manicured hand on her husband’s arm and added, “You too, my love. Big smiles.”

Martin smirked at her. “I know, Jessie.”

The dinner party was hosted at the American Museum of Natural History; specially reserved for the night. A massive red banner hung from the columns, illuminated from below by spotlights. It lightly fluttered in the evening air as it advertised the grand charity banquet and welcomed its guests. The wide marble steps were crowded with other socialites, executives, and board members from not only The Whitly Foundation, but from various other charity foundations as well.

The marble steps were also crowded with vultures from the media. The rope stanchions seemed to do little to deter the news and paparazzi from crowding the carpet that had been laid out for the party guests to follow.

Malcolm inhaled a deep sigh, knowing exactly what was coming. He followed his nanny out of the limousine, instantly being assaulted by the sharp blasts of the photographer’s lights. He held Miss Louisa’s hand as they circled around to the other side of the car. The caretaker carried his baby sister on her hip, lightly bouncing her to keep her in good spirits. Fortunately, that wasn't a difficult task at the moment. Unlike Malcolm, little Ainsley _enjoyed_ the cameras. Dazzled by their bursts of light, she giggled at their clicking and snapping noises. Perhaps she inherited the fascination from her mother.

Jessica seemed to soak in the flashes of the cameras like she was sun tanning, happy to show off her husband, her son, and then her pretty baby girl, whom Miss Louisa handed over for the duration of a few photos. Martin gave the slew of reporters some well-crafted smiles, but he was nowhere near as enamored by their attention as Mrs. Whitly was. He endured it all patiently, his hand on his son’s shoulder. Malcolm blinked in response to the blinding lights, but smiled at the cameras as he’d been trained to do, hovering close to his father’s side and waiting for the glamorous torture to end.

Extending his elbow to his wife, Martin welcomed Jessica to hook her arm through it, a gesture which gently conveyed that it was time to head inside. After giving baby Ainsley one last kiss on her tiny head --just in time for a flash from The New York Times reporter’s camera-- Mrs. Whitly handed the toddler back to Miss Louisa and accepted her husband’s invitation. The perfect family made their way up the marble steps without further delay.

Laughter buzzed from the crowd of people --who were all twice Malcolm’s size, and mostly strangers. The boy remained by his father’s leg, trusting his guidance and having faith that the man would lead him where he needed to go amidst the churning sea of chaos. That was exactly what Martin did. His free hand rested against his son's back, keeping him close and shepherding him through the over-stimulating environment, which was certainly difficult to process and navigate for a child who was only as tall as everyone's hips.

Malcolm performed a double take as he spotted a skeletal structure of a Tyrannosaurus rex on the other end of the grand foyer of the museum. “Dad! Dad, look!” he urged, tugging at the man’s tuxedo.

Martin glanced over at the display that his son passionately pointed out. “I know, isn’t that neat?” he murmured distractedly.

“Can we go look at it?” Malcolm pleaded excitedly.

“Not right now,” Martin answered, running his palm over the back of the boy's head before replacing his touch on his shoulder to guide him forward again. Malcolm shuffled along, but kept craning his head back to catch glimpses of the dinosaur.

The family soon became trapped in a cycle of involuntary chatter with an endless supply of donors, sponsors, colleagues, and acquaintances alike. The financial discussions, firm hand shakes, false jokes, and painfully large smiles were enough to exhaust anyone, even Dr. Whitly, who was erudite in it all.

Malcolm despised being presented to strangers like an accessory, and he had no interest in listening to adults talk about topics that he was entirely unfamiliar with. Malcolm’s mother was incredibly talented at humiliating him at these dinner parties. She spoke about him in third person and called him things like ‘cute,’ ‘adorable,’ and ‘darling.’ He hated it.

When the attendees were called to take their seats, the Whitly family followed the crowd into a banquet hall. The hall was dotted with round tables that were covered with gold satin cloths and adorned with centerpieces of copper spiral sculptures that appeared somewhat like the tendrils of fire. Theatrical lights cast warm amber waves across the room, subtly undulating to simulate a calm liveliness.

The dinner was served by an expert catering staff, which sounded much more exciting than it actually was. It simply meant that silent, soulless waiters brought out artistic culinary creations which were terribly small in serving size considering that they were hundreds of dollars a plate. Malcolm supposed the small serving size was a good thing, because most of the food was so unnecessarily fancy that it wasn’t even tasty. The child didn’t understand the appeal of expensive purple leaves drizzled in orange sauce. He stared at his plate with an intimidated expression before obeying his mother’s commands and timidly taking a fork to it.

Ainsley was young enough to get a free pass from eating the nasty grown-up food. Miss Louisa had brought snacks for her in her purse, but poor Malcolm was expected to fully partake in the terrible dinner like a big boy.

When Mrs. Whitly picked on her son for picking at his food, her husband murmured under his breath, “He ate before he came, Jessie. Leave him alone.”

The woman then turned her crosshairs on Martin and scolded him for allowing the boy to spoil his dinner. Martin easily endured the lukewarm heat of her womanly wrath and murmured an empty apology. They briefly carried on a docile couple’s argument with hushed voices and false smiles while pretending to listen to various presenters who rambled at the podium on the stage.

The speakers at the podium talked _forever_. The content of their speeches was even more boring than that of their interpersonal gossip. Ainsley started growing restless, and fussed with quiet sobs and whines, demanding for attention. Miss Louisa was quick to take the toddler away from the table to soothe and distract her --though her swift action was mostly for the purpose of sparing the Whitlys from any other guests’ looks of irritation, which were successfully prevented. Malcolm wished he could have gone with them, if only for the opportunity to get out of his stiff chair and walk around. But he was too old to get what he wanted by throwing a temper tantrum.

He would have liked to fall asleep at the table, due not only to the soul-sucking topics of the speeches, but also due to the fact that it was nearing his bedtime. However, he knew that wouldn’t be allowed, so he obediently sat as still as he possibly could and waited.

And waited.

And waited, until he fell at least partially asleep --mentally, anyway-- with his eyes reluctantly stuck open. Snakes slept that way, he recalled. He wondered if dinosaurs had slept that way too, when they’d roamed the Earth.

“Oh, there’s Mrs. Philips,” Jessica whispered, removing her silk napkin from her lap to dab at her painted lips and then place it neatly on the table. She folded the creases of the napkin and stood from her seat. “Now’s my time to strike.” After smoothing down her red dress, she asked her husband, “How do I look?”

Appearing to emerge from his own reptilian nap, Martin turned his attention to her and donned a big, bright smile. “Perfect,” he answered. “As always.”

She hummed contentedly and held her Gucci purse as if there was a dagger or a vial of poison hidden in it. In reality, it only held a single large check. The most effective weapon, in her books. “I’ll be back, dears. You two stay here. Malcolm, I wanna see that plate empty when I return.”

The child ignored her motherly threat, knowing that if she made a fuss later, his father would defend him again.

Dr. Whitly’s beaming smile fell as the woman walked away, and he turned his attention back on the dreary speaker at the podium. When the clacking sounds of Jessica’s retreating heels had merged with that of the general ambiance of the room, Martin leaned over to grab Malcolm’s plate. He scraped part of its contents onto his own half-finished dish, then scraped the remainder of the food onto his wife’s plate, distributing and merging the meals in a way that wouldn’t arouse any suspicion.  
  
He set the empty plate back where it belonged with a small smile aimed at his son, and his son smiled back to convey a relieved ‘thanks.’

The two remaining Whitlys sat there in silence as the speeches droned on, both miserable and restless. After a brief while, Malcolm released a long sigh of frustration and placed both elbows on the table in a childish display of rebellion. “This is _sooooooo_ boring.”

Martin smirked at him, nodding in empathy. “I know, son.”

The child held his face in his hands and pouted at his empty plate.

His father watched him for a moment, then glanced over to ensure Jessie wasn’t eyeing them from across the room. Upon confirming that his wife was thoroughly engrossed in catching up with her old friend, Martin also let out a long sigh and mimicked Malcolm’s pose with some exaggeration, placing his elbows on the table and holding his bearded face in his hands.

Malcolm’s despair lessened as he smirked at the humorous copycat.

They both would rather be somewhere else, doing other, more enjoyable things.

The two of them sat there commiserating playfully for a minute, until Martin cast his watchful eyes across their surroundings again --as if he were about to share a secret that he didn’t want anybody overhearing. Then Dr. Whitly scrunched his nose and jerked his head, a gesture that said, _‘Let's get out of here.’_

His son’s expression brightened with eagerness. _‘Okay.’_

Following his father’s guidance once more, Malcolm got out of his seat and hovered beside him as they slipped away from the dinner table and snuck out of the banquet hall.

* * *

“I know eating isn't really your thing, but you’re gonna have to finish my plate for me.”

Malcolm blinked as his memory was interrupted by his sister’s voice. 

They were not attending a nonprofit charity event. They were attending a gala for the city’s newest project reveal. The tall ceilings and columns around them were not those of the Museum of Natural History, but were instead those of The Met. Silver and white tablecloths replaced those that were gold. The theatrical lights which cast decorative undulating shapes around the banquet hall were not warm hues of amber, but were actually cold hues of blue. The centerpieces on the dinner tables were made of steel --jagged, erect, and reminiscent of stalagmites of ice-- as opposed to copper spiral centerpieces that were reminiscent of the curling flames of a warm hearth. However, a speaker still boasted at a microphone on a stage, and the event was hosted at the same level of prestige and formality --therefore, its standards for perfection were just as high. 

Malcolm was wearing an expensive tuxedo and a symmetrical bow tie. His brown locks were combed back nicely, stiffened into place with hairspray and gel. Ainsley was in a tight-fitting azure dress --which was sleeveless, sparkly, and had a low-cut back-- secured by a hoop collar around her neck. Her hair was up, appearing as if it was fit for a bridal photo shoot with a braid leading from her temple to a nice bun behind her head. Some strands of blonde hair that could not be tamed hung in front of her ears, bearing their natural curled shape.

She set her utensils down and removed her silk napkin from her lap to dab at her painted lips before dropping the cloth on the table.

“Why?” Malcolm asked in regards to her question.

“I gotta run before Mister Million-Dollar-Suit leaves the podium,” she pointed at the man. It did look like he was wearing a million dollar suit. “I have a live shot _right_ after the announcement. Jin’s setting it up now.”

“Jin’s here?” Malcolm asked curiously, craning his head back to try to catch a glimpse of the guy.

“Of course he is, he’s my photog.”

“He’s also your boyfriend, isn’t he? Shouldn’t he be sitting here with you instead of me?”

Ainsley made a face and shook her head. “We’re not… dating, anymore. Not after…”

“Oh.” That made sense.

Perhaps they were both doomed to stay single forever, thanks to their highly unpredictable and trouble-finding natures. Not to mention the extensive issues that stemmed from their childhood trauma. Not that Ainsley had much of that, thank God. And not that Malcolm necessarily had... a _ton_ of that, the profiler supposed. It wasn't like he was ever abused or anything. Physically, at least.

Malcolm gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine,” Ainsley sighed, rolling her eyes. “Just makes work… awkward. To say the least.” She folded her arms on the table and leaned on them, assuming a very unladylike pose. Malcolm didn’t correct her posture, as it would have been hypocritical. He himself was also sitting less than attentive --slouching back in his seat, looking very bored and tired. “It would have been _more_ awkward if he was sitting here with me instead of you.”

Malcolm smirked, understanding. “You invited me so that you had an excuse not to give him your extra dinner ticket.”

She shot him a smile.

He gave her a slow, affectionate nod --one that was earnestly grateful. “Thank you for letting me tag along.”

“Ugh, don’t thank me. The food is _terrible_ and this man has a voice so monotone, it could put Siri out of a job,” his sister griped. She straightened her spine only to rest it against the back of her chair, folding her arms across her sparkly blue chest.

Then she looked over at him with one of those looks. A fox-like look that told him she knew he was up to some mischief, and wanted in on it. “Why would _you_ ** _ever_** wanna come to something like _this?”_ she drawled rhetorically, already having guessed the answer. “You _hate_ these things.”

Malcolm took his time to give her a flat, calm look that yielded nothing. His smile was faint and distant, part of a neutral mask that he was not going to lower, not even for her.

She waited for him to lower it, just a titch, so she could peer around it and see what secrets he was hiding. “Are you gonna tell me who you’re investigating?” she asked, a playful tone to her voice.

“No,” he answered with a tranquil smile, “I’m not.”

She grinned enticingly at him, and his smile brightened, but he did not give in.

Ainsley turned her face to the glass ceiling and sighed in a frustrated defeat. _“Fine,”_ she surrendered. _“_ Just don’t get in my shot. And give me a heads-up if someone’s gonna try and murder somebody. Okay? I need time to frame up the camera.”

He snickered at her inappropriate joke, but agreed, “I’ll try. But no promises.” His grin fell as he recognized that line. But it was too late. He’d already spoken it.

They fell silent and listened to the speaker again. Ainsley was taking some light notes, but there wasn't anything much of interest to write down yet. She seemed to be hesitating to speak up again, but finally, she did. She couldn't resist asking just one more question, though she feared that her brother would shut it down. “Is there... any update?”

He looked at her, and she met his gaze. Her mischievous confidence was gone. Instead, she looked almost nervous. “About dad?”

Malcolm didn’t answer her. He cleared his throat and responded with a question of his own. “Are you asking me that because of ‘ _business,’_ or…?”

“No,” she shook her head. Sometimes she really hated being a news reporter. Her occupation had a habit of creating a wall between her and others, at times. Apparently, having the power of the press at her fingertips meant that she was no longer worthy of people’s trust, when it came to private things. “Just... because of ‘family.’”

They held each other’s gazes for quite some time. Malcolm guarded his poker face well. Ainsley prayed that he would not brush away her question, as he had all the times she’d asked it before. 

Finally, he opened his mouth. “You can tell the cops to stop watching you.”

Ainsley’s anticipation morphed into something else.

“Dad’s not… gonna come after you,” he told her carefully.

His words settled in her mind, and she processed them. After a moment, she scoffed, her lips twitching into a misplaced grin. “So… _what?_ He’s…?” her smile faded. _“Dead?_ ”

“We haven’t found a body,” Malcolm said. “But…” Malcolm proceeded slowly, deliberately. “If he were… _able_ to, he would have… made contact with someone by now.”

Ainsley stared at him, then translated with another scoff and a dash of bitterness, “With _you._ He would have made contact with _you.”_

“With _someone,_ ” Malcolm emphasized, “Yes. And he hasn’t. So.” He left it at that.

Ainsley was torn between being humored and being upset. “Well, is that _all_ the info you’re going off of? I mean, that’s not… that’s not _evidence,_ Malcolm. He could still be--”

“He’s not, Ains.”

“He probably _left!_ He’s probably in another _state_ right now,” she exclaimed, tossing a hand up. Why hadn’t her brother considered these obvious options? “Or another country!”

Malcolm stopped her tangent by raising a gentle hand between them. “That’s _not_ all the info we’re going off of. We have more.”

She calmed. “Oh.” She blinked. “Can you… tell me any of it?”

He shook his head with a solemn dedication. “No.” He had given her all of the information that he was going to give her.

Ainsley’s expression distorted with something close to anger, and then fear. Her brother knew of more details, but he wasn’t going to tell them to her. They were details that he clearly did not want her to know about, maybe not necessarily because they were confidential details, but perhaps instead because they were too horrific for her to know.

She felt her stomach sink as a chill ran through her exposed back. Then her out-of-place smile returned, and she looked down at the table cloth as she grinned with heartache.

Their father was dead.

All she could think about was the last time she saw him, immobile and asleep in the hospital, when he was in a coma after their mother had stabbed him. Ainsley had said goodbye to him that day, after coming to terms with the near-certain possibility that he wasn't going to wake up again. Now, she had to come to terms with losing him all over again. For the _third_ time. And for the _third_ time, she hadn’t been able to say a real, proper goodbye --nor hear one at all from him.

“Okay,” she nodded, tucking in her lip and biting it. “Okay.”

She remembered her mother’s voice saying _‘Just… not like this.’_

It would have been _peaceful,_ if her father had died like _that;_ in that hospital bed, after another flatline had sliced across the screen which monitored his heart rate. It might have even been painless for him, thanks to the coma.

But whatever had ended up happening to him _instead_ of that… she doubted it was painless, based off Malcolm’s ambiguity.

Malcolm watched her suffer through the stages of grief. Denial, wrath, mourning, acceptance. They composed a kaleidoscopic gauntlet of emotion that tormented his little sister. He saw loss in her eyes, as deep and raw as that which he’d seen in his father’s. It captivated him, and immeasurably saddened him.

Malcolm wished he could tell her more. He wished he could tell her the truth, or at least part of it. That their father was fine _\--more_ than fine. That he was currently livin’ it up with his Roku in his shitty motel room. Malcolm wished he could tell her that he’d shown Martin her promo video, that the man had melted almost instantly when he saw her --like how he often did when he saw Malcolm during the times he’d visited him in Claremont. The profiler wished he could tell her that she had been the necessary key to soften The Surgeon and douse his fiery temper. That she was his secret weakness just as much as Malcolm was, even though she didn’t believe it.

But he couldn’t. Malcolm couldn’t tell her any of that. The profiler was forced to let her suffer through those destructive emotions alone. “I'm having some movers come clean out the cell tomorrow morning. At ten o’clock,” he said. “If you… want anything…”

She shook her head. “Why would I want anything?”

“I don’t know.”

Anger tainted her voice as she asked, “What could I _possibly_ do with any of his stuff?”

“Sell it?” he shrugged.

She threw him a disgusted look.

“Or give it to charity?” he suggested instead. “That’s what _I’m_ doing with it.”

“You’re getting rid of dad’s stuff!?” she hissed, appalled.

He shrugged defensively. “What else am I supposed to do with it?”

“Store it in a garage somewhere? I don’t know,” she grumbled.

“Why? It’s not like he’s ever gonna come ba--”

 _“I don’t know,_ okay?” she hissed again, more quietly this time. “Just _\--shut up.”_

Malcolm shut up. This wasn't going very well, and he felt bad.

“I think it’s best if this stays between us,” he eased after a few moments. “I know for a fact that mom doesn't want anything, and... knowing her, she’ll try to get a hold of it all and burn it.” He wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to commandeer the moving van herself, and drove it straight into the Hudson in a burning blaze of glory.

Ainsley didn’t respond.

“Ains?”

“Yeah, I know,” she muttered, staring at her notebook and trying to focus on taking more notes. “I’m not gonna tell her,” she promised. Her ‘notes’ became deep swirls that she carved into the notepad, the pen moving slightly faster and bearing down harder on the page as she mumbled, “She’ll probably… throw a goddamn _party,_ or something. To _celebrate.”_

She removed her hand from the paper and dropped her pen onto her notepad with a sigh. Blinking rapidly, she carefully moved her fingers under her lower eyelids to protect her makeup from the extra moisture of her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset,” Malcolm murmured apologetically.

“I’m fine,” Ainsley snapped weakly. “I just don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“Okay.”

As Ainsley took a deep breath and reset herself --now doodling slow, calming circles on her notepad-- Malcolm turned his attention back to the speaker at the podium, who was wearing the million dollar suit. 

Was he the target?

The profiler scanned the vast sea of party guests around them. There were hundreds of people here. The banquet hall was packed with city officials, politicians, celebrities, and other big names interested in the mysterious project which they’d contributed so many hundreds of thousands of dollars to.

Malcolm spotted Everett Sterling.

The lawyer was sitting at a table on the other half of the room, slightly closer to the stage than the two Whitlys. It appeared as if he were sitting with friends. Other lawyers, perhaps? They were nobody that Malcolm recognized, nor did they give him any cause for suspicion.

When Mr. Million-Dollar-Suit finally revealed the city’s newest project, Ainsley began jotting down _real_ notes, her pen scribbling across her notepad at the speed of light. She scratched-out some misspelled errors, but caught most of what she needed to make a preliminary report.

The city was remodeling a large portion of its major hospitals with new technology in their operating rooms. _Robotic_ technology, which cut down time, mistakes, and was projected to drastically lower malpractice claims. It was an expensive project, but one that claimed to be cost effective in the long run because it negated the need for certain surgical procedures. The technology boasted accuracy and minimally-invasive talents. It would be operated by specially-trained surgeons, whose duties would change to be more akin to that of joystick gamers.

The surgeons, the surgeons, The Surgeons.

The speaker uttered that word over and over, the sound amplified by the microphone. Omnipresent, and surrounding. It chipped away a piece of Ainsley’s heavily-fortified composure each time it was spoken. She continued taking her notes, scribbling against the notepad with a force hard enough to tear through the yellow pages -- as if they were layers of skin under a Surgeon’s knife.

“Ainsley! Ainsley, we’re up next, come on!” Jin hissed vehemently, running over to their table and trying not to be too disruptive to the rich folks around them. The reporter stood up and finished one last sloppy note, flustered. She realized she should have left the table three minutes ago. “Okay, I'm coming.”

“Where’s your IFB?” 

“I have it.” She fumbled with the earpiece and ensured that the pack hidden in her dress was switched on. As Jin took off to where he’d set up the tripod and camera, Ainsley smoothed down her dress and asked her brother, “How do I look?”

Emerging from his scrutinous crowd-searching, Malcolm turned his attention to her. She looked a bit stressed, but other than that… “You look great, Ains,” he answered, giving her a bright, kind smile. “Really.”

He meant it.

She could tell.

Ainsley smiled at him and then jogged away in her heels, one hand holding her dress away from her feet as the other hand gripped her microphone. Malcolm watched her go as the retreating sounds of her clacking heels merged with that of the general ambiance of the room.

After briefly reflecting on how much he cared about his sister, and how much he hoped for her not to be too upset about what he’d told her, he dragged his focus back to the other party guests.

The hospital that was scheduled to be remodeled first --which was as soon as later this month-- was the hospital that Lieutenant Arroyo was currently in. Malcolm furrowed his brow at that, finding the coincidence slightly suspicious. The profiler watched Sterling throughout the rest of the presentation, either with a carefully-placed, direct gaze, or through his peripherals. He noticed the way that the crooked lawyer looked at another guest while listening to the details of the medical renovations. He was eyeing a woman at another table --but it was not a look of attraction.

Malcolm turned his focus to her. The woman wore little makeup and had made no large effort to appear as glamorous as the other women had that night. Unlike Malcolm’s socialite mother, and the majority of the candy-wives in attendance, this woman was independent, stoic, and had a sense of maturity about her. She appeared to be the mama bear type, whom nobody would dare cross, and who was clearly a strong and capable figure. Perhaps a senator, or other government official. Malcolm studied her, and studied the way that Sterling looked at her. Sterling’s elbow was resting on his table and his thumb was running over the edges of his other fingernails --nearly the exact way that Dr. Whitly had run his thumb over the edge of his serrated blade.

The man was daydreaming of violence. The mentions of _surgeons_ and _surgeries_ had him excited. The lawyer stared at that woman, and no one else, during the entirety of that speech. When Sterling finally tore his gaze from her and placed it back on the speaker at the podium, he subtly smiled, and rested his knuckles against his smile to try to quell it.

It was her. She was his target.

But _why_ did he want her dead?


	3. Chapter 3

Giant skeletons loomed in the darkness.

They were lit from below by the warm glow of the portable work lights that were scattered throughout the room, creating an atmosphere that was either intimate, eerie, or somehow, both.

The two Whitlys had succeeded in their escape; slipping past a roped-off doorway and through a drape of plastic which had been concealing a prehistoric exhibit that was undergoing maintenance. The large room was cluttered with evidence of the remodeling project, such as stacked scaffolding and dusty tools. Martin was particularly interested in the instruments and bones that were laid out on a few carts.

 _“Woah!”_ his son cried. The boy’s silhouette ran through the vast space toward a towering display. “Look at _that_ one!” The child was fearless in the presence of the monstrous corpses, each half-reconstructed back into a pose that mimicked life. “Is that one a T-rex _too!?”_ he jumped excitedly.

“No, that’s a different one,” his father answered. His silhouette calmly followed the exuberant child’s like he was his larger shadow. “That one’s a _Carnotaurus._ See the bumps above its eyes? Those are its horns.”

“A carno… taurus?”

“Yep.” His father’s voice changed to possess a theatrically threatening flair. “That means... _‘meat-eating bull.’”_

Malcolm threw back a glare and a smile, knowing that tone. That was his dad’s _‘I’m coming after you,’_ tone.

Sure enough, his father had lifted his fingers to the top of his head like devil horns, preparing to charge. The child squealed with a shrill laughter as he was chased around the great big Carnotaurus, running as fast as his little legs could carry him. But he wasn't paying attention, and when his father changed direction and ducked behind the display, the boy inadvertently ran straight into his clutches. He was promptly scooped up and devoured.

The room spun as they twirled. His father’s bearded kisses tickled his face while his clawed grip tickled his sides. The child squirmed and giggled and screamed, gasping for him to stop, though he didn’t really want him to. His cries echoed through the cavernous exhibit hall, but no one heard him. They were the only two people in the world. At that moment, their world was a graveyard of monsters --which had been unearthed and transformed into a sanctuary of art and discovery.

The boy was tightly squeezed in a possessive embrace, and then placed back on his feet and spurred forward with a few pats. Released like a filly out of a racing gate, Malcolm ran off again, bee-lining it for the next prehistoric skeleton. “I know this one!” he shouted excitedly. “This one’s a Velociraptor!”

“That’s right.”

Malcolm admired the fossilized dino’s fangs and talons-- particularly its big toes, which looked like curved daggers. “Dad?” he asked, turning around as his father came to stand behind him. “Do you think a Velociraptor could win against a… a Carnivore-a-taur?”

“Carno- _taurus,”_ his father corrected with a smirk, “And yes, actually, I think it could.”

“How?”

“Well, Velociraptors hunt in packs, remember? Like wolves. So if you had three, maybe four Velociraptors against one Carnotaurus… I think they could win,” he nodded. “Sneak up on it, from all sides.”

Malcolm grinned at the skeleton in front of him. _“Cool.”_ Even back then, when a juvenile innocence consumed the child, it was comforting to him to know that it was possible for the smaller dinosaurs to win against the bigger ones, no matter how formidable they seemed.

The boy asked his father all sorts of questions about the skeletons they saw. Each question was answered in simple detail, and never declined. Malcolm asked why there were so many holes in the dinosaurs’ skulls, and he learned what sinuses were. He asked why there was so much space between the dinosaurs' rib cages and their pelvises, and he learned about the organs of the abdomen. His father said the abdomen was the weak spot of every creature. The part which predators feasted on first, after they’d drawn close enough to fell their prey.

Malcolm asked how the dinosaurs could hold up their huge heads even though the bones in their necks appeared so small and fragile, and he learned about the muscles in the throat. His father spoke about the platysma, and the trapezius, and the digastric muscles that made it so that one could nod their head.

“They start here, attach to a point right here, and then they extend back here,” Martin explained, dragging a finger over the skin of his son’s neck, just under his jaw.

Malcolm giggled as his father’s nail scraped under his chin, then under his ear, lightly tickling him. “What else?”

“What else what?”

“What else is in my neck?” the boy beamed, looking up at him.

“Well, let’s have a look.” His father knelt in front of the child and touched his fingertips to the front of his throat as if performing a doctor’s check up.

“Turn your head to the left.”

Malcolm did.

“Now to the right.”

Malcolm did. He turned his head back and forth some more as he felt the muscles in his neck change with each turn of his head.

“You feel that?”

“Yeah. What’s that?” The boy brought his little hand up to touch the place his father touched, feeling the V-shape that was hidden under his skin. 

“That’s called the sterno-cleido-mastoid,” his father explained. He set his finger on his son’s chest. “‘Sterno,’ for the sternum.” He moved his finger up higher on his chest. “‘Cleido,’ for the clavicle.” With both hands, he touched two identical spots behind Malcolm's ears, completing a constellation over his body that formed a Y shape. “And ‘mastoid,’ for the mastoid process, which is a part of your skull right here.”

The child grinned as he followed the path his father laid out for him, touching each spot on the map he’d charted. He was easily able to understand how the muscle was strung through his small body. _“Cool.”_

“It is cool, isn’t it?” Martin agreed with a snicker.

“Do you have one too?” the boy asked.

“I do. Everyone does.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m _very_ sure,” Martin chuckled, his eyes twinkling.

The child reached forward to place his own touch on his father’s neck, checking for the muscle. The man’s throat was warm, and his skin had a slightly rough, almost prickly texture towards the top where he’d shaved.

“Turn your head,” Malcolm ordered. His father beamed and did as he was told. Malcolm burst into a smile. “You _do_ have it!” The boy then found a spot that throbbed under his hand, and he donned his trademark look of puzzlement.

“Do you feel that?” Martin placed his hand over his son's and encouraged him to press upon the spot he’d found.

Malcolm felt it pump under the pressure of his touch. “What is that?”

“That’s the _carotid_ artery,” his father explained. He placed his thumb over Malcolm’s artery, and the boy became more aware of his own quickly-throbbing pulse under his light pressure. “It’s one of the most important tubes in your body. It carries blood up from your heart, to your brain. And if that artery is _damaged,_ and it's not fixed quickly, then you’ll die,” Martin explained sweetly.

He continued moving over the surface of his son’s throat, also guiding the boy’s hand over his own so that he could follow along with the journey. “There’s one on the other side too. And right _here…_ is where the jugular vein is. That’s the tube that carries blood back down to your heart.”

“This center column here, is the _trachea._ The tube through which you breathe,” Martin showed him, moving his little hand to the right place on his own neck. “That’s another important part. You can die if you go too long without breathing.”

While he spoke, Martin gazed at each corresponding component of his son’s throat as if he could see right through his skin. It was easy to mistake the dreamy look in his eyes as fondness, and that was exactly what Malcolm did.

His father knew exactly how to pick him apart, but he could just as easily put him right back together. The boy believed that if some piece of him was ever broken, or missing, then he would never be broken or incomplete for long --so long as he was with his father. The boy believed, wholeheartedly, that his dad really did love him --more than anybody else ever could, because he knew _every_ part of him.

“What’s this?” Malcolm asked, feeling a hard spot that protruded from his father’s neck. It was a feature that his own throat did not possess.

“That’s the thyroid cartilage, also known as an Adam’s apple. It protects the larynx, which is your voice box.” The apple vibrated and moved while his father spoke. “You have one too, it’s just smaller.”

Martin guided him through a simple humming exercise, ascending and then descending a musical scale. Malcolm followed along, and they felt each other’s thyroid cartilage shift and reverberate in response to the exercise. Malcolm giggled, delighted by the little game.

“When you’re older, your cartilage will grow, and stick out like mine. Then you’ll be able to reach those deeper notes, like I can,” Martin promised.

“I’m gonna grow!?” Malcolm gasped, struck by the realization that he would not be this small forever. The concept that one day his throat would be the same as his father’s excited him.

“Yes. You grow everyday,” Martin grinned. He poked the child’s forehead, then his chest. “Your brain grows when you learn new things, and your body grows when you sleep, and eat healthy food.”

The boy grimaced. “Like the kind we had tonight?”

“No, that was _terrible_ food,” Martin shook his head, laughing. “You want to eat _meat._ Lots and lots of meat.”

“Like a _carnotaur!”_ Malcolm shouted.

 _“Carno- taurus,_ yes,” his father corrected with a smirk. “Then you’ll be as big as me one day.”

He brought his son’s attention to their hands, which were now matched together as if they were on either side of a glass panel. 

Malcolm glanced at them. 

One day his hands would be just as big as his father’s. One day he would be just as tall, and just as strong, and just as fast, and just as smart. One day they would be equals. That day seemed so far away, at the time. 

Sometimes it still did.

The boy chose one hand to focus on more closely, abandoning the other. He held his father’s large hand with both of his own, comparing the differences in the lengths of their digits and the textures of their skin. Martin smiled as he let his son scour the landscape of his hand and learn about it through his touch. He gazed at that deeply-concentrating look on his child’s face, enamored by it. The kid appeared as if he was staring at some deeply-complex puzzle, and solving it was a matter of life and death. It was very humorous to Martin.

Malcolm was very thorough, and even compared the characteristics of their nails. He noticed that his father had some rust-colored dirt under the nail of his ring finger --in the deepest crevices. It was strange to see residual dirt under his nail, because his father always washed his hands very often, and very well --all the way up to his elbows, like all good surgeons did.

Martin noticed the dirt too. His smile froze, but did not change. He smoothly rotated his hand to present his upturned palm for the boy to examine instead. “Do you see these lines? Do you have the same ones as me?” he asked, prompting Malcolm to check his own hand and compare the details of the two.

The child fell for the diversion, and the conversation switched to that of palm-reading as they traced each other’s skin.

Their lines were indeed the same.

* * *

“Let’s turn our attention now to The Met, where Ainsley Whitly is reporting live at the annual City Banquet. Ainsley, there’s been a lot of chatter about this investment. What can you tell us?”

The reporter beamed with a smile just as dazzling as her sky blue dress. “Good evening, Sharon. Tonight the city unveiled _new_ technology that will be implemented in _five_ regional hospitals. The technology is that of remote-controlled, robotic operating machines developed by JLB Health Corp that plan to change the way that, uh, that surgeries are performed --for the better.”

“Ainsley, who will be operating these new machines?” Sharon, the anchor, asked. “Will it be the surgeon, or a specialized technician, or…?”

“It’ll be --yes, it’ll be the surgeons,” the reporter nodded, reinforcing her smile. “The company _explicitly_ assured that the patients will _still_ be treated by a qualified medical professional.”

“I would assume that the surgeons would worry that these robots may be putting them out of a job. It seems that with this modern technology, the traditional role of The Surgeon is dead. Is that true, Ainsley?”

“Um.” The reporter blinked. “He’s--” She flashed a short-lived smile and shook her head. ”No, no, he -- _They_ , uh they’re not. _It’s_ not,” she stuttered, trying to correct her grammar. “They’re just training --they will be trained in this new technology and… uh.”

“But clearly, The Surgeon will not have the same presence as they did before, would you agree?”

“Y-Yes. Yes, he won’t have the same...” Ainsley closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath, becoming frustrated by her mistakes. “They won’t have the same presence, anymore.”

Sharon’s next question went unheard. “Do you know if the surgeons will have a new title, or…?”

Ainsley kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, bit her lip, then blinked her eyes open, fighting back tears.

“Is everything alright, Ainsley?”

No. It wasn't.

Ainsley remembered the day that she found out her father watched her newscasts. He’d told her that he watched them diligently, at every chance he could. She remembered the strange burst of happiness she’d felt, like she was actually _seen,_ for once.

She’d later asked Mr. David for verification, and Mr. David told her it was true. Martin could have watched anything else on that old television in his cell, but for the short time allotted to him, he always wanted to watch her. It was the only way he could see her, and he was proud of her work. Nobody else in her family cared about watching her stories as much as he did.

Her father would never watch her newscasts again. She would never be _seen_ again. Not really. Not by the viewer who cared the most.

Ainsley stared at the cold, dark eye of the camera. For the past couple of months, she’d known that _he_ was on the other side of it, watching her. It had been some sort of portal for her to reach him, and for him to reach her. But he wasn't on the other side of it now. That portal led nowhere. That lens was dead and empty; a black void like the one in her heart. A piece of her was missing, causing that vacant space, and she would never be whole again.

There was a gaping wound inside of her that could never be sutured and healed shut.

She started to smile, and then she gave a single laugh. “I'm sorry.” She shook her head, grinning. “I shouldn’t be laughing.” She involuntarily giggled again, holding one hand to her lips and shaking her head. “There’s um, there’s somebody behind my photographer making me laugh. I’m sorry, guys, I’ll send it back to you.”

Behind the viewfinder, Jin winced in confusion and glanced behind himself. There was nobody there.

Sharon reluctantly accepted the abrupt toss-back. “Uh. Okay. Well, it seems that they will just… have to find a way to adapt to this changing environment.”

Ainsley nodded, her throat tight. A smile was still trapped on her face as a few tears trickled down her cheeks. Mercifully, the red light on Jin’s camera went dark. Released from the grip of the live newscast, the reporter exhaled a sob she’d been struggling to hold in.

* * *

The blue light of the television filled the small room.

“That’s all for us tonight on Direct News Nation. Be sure to tune in tomorrow for...” Sharon’s voice continued babbling.

With a Roku remote in his hand, a man smiled, heartbroken.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

* * *

“Why hello, Mister... _‘Bright.’”_

Everett Sterling’s smile was that of a shark--and he looked like one, too. He was wearing a tuxedo that was as silver as cutlery, his grey hair quaffed and his smile sharpened. He looked like he had enough money to get away with murder.

Malcolm was going to make sure that didn’t happen.

“I didn’t think this was your kind of party,” the man grinned as they came to meet amidst the mingling dinner guests. “You didn’t come just for a chance to talk to _me,_ did you?”

“Cut the bullshit, Sterling. You know why I'm here,” Malcolm glared.

“Yes, I heard about what happened at that junkyard,” the lawyer shook his head and put on a disappointed face. “Terrible. Just terrible.”

“You _knew_ there was a bomb there,” Malcolm accused lowly.

The lawyer released a brief, curt chuckle. “Don't be silly, Mister Bright. How could I have known that?”

“I don't know,” Malcolm lied. Then, he told the truth. “But I _do_ know you had _something_ to do with it. It wasn't a coincidence, and John was in prison, so he couldn’t have planted it.”

“Yes, he _was_ in prison,” Sterling nodded. His grin returned as his hand moved forward to gesture at the profiler. “Speaking of which, he’s going to be released in a couple of days, thanks to you.” 

Malcolm firmly announced, “I’m revoking my signature.”

“It’s too late. I’m sorry,” the lawyer responded, as if he wasn’t sorry at all.

“His tip yielded _no_ valuable information to us,” Malcolm argued, performing his own gestures of frustration. “He sent us into a pre-planned trap _.”_

“The documents are signed, Mister Bright,” Sterling smiled patiently, enjoying this. “The judge has already made his ruling on the matter. Watkins is walking out of prison on Thursday.” The man stepped closer, adding more privacy to their conversation. “Now if you want my _advice…_ I’d keep a close eye on him. There’s no telling what he could do next.”

“That’s not my job,” Malcolm bitterly reminded him. “That’s his probation officer’s job. I shouldn’t have to tell you that, you’re his lawyer.”

“Yes, and as his lawyer, I know for a _fact_ that my client’s probation officer is….” He pretended to think. “Well, let’s just say he’s not the most _attentive_ person. Nor anywhere near as _passionate_ about all this as you are.”

Malcolm grew concerned. “Who is his probation officer?”

“I can’t tell you. That’s protected under client-attorney confidentiality,” Sterling grinned. Truly, all of this was, but he was willing to leak some information for the sole purpose of seeing the boy flustered, and causing him anxiety.

Malcolm allowed himself to appear flustered, and he spoon-fed Sterling his anxiety. “He’s on house arrest, isn’t he? With an ankle monitor?”

“Well, _yes,_ but… his probation officer isn’t all that _good,”_ he smiled, letting that phrase settle in the air. _“_ With technology,” he elaborated, smirking. “Besides, the judge ruled that as long as his nana gives us a status report once per week, then there’s no need for--”

 _“What?”_ Malcolm burst. “His n-- _Are you kidding me?”_

Sterling thought his reaction was humorous. “Who else is going to serve as his caretaker?”

“She’s _blind!”_ Malcolm cried. “And she’s just as corrupt as he is!”

Sterling regarded him as if he were a silly child having a tantrum. “Look at you. Firing accusations into the air like they’re _confetti,”_ he smirked. Clearly, he considered them just as light and harmless.

Malcolm didn’t understand how all of this was possible. This was not how the criminal justice system worked. At least, not how it was meant to work. Lieutenant Arroyo was right; this man really was a bulldozer. _“How_ did you get away with all that?”

“Oh please, I can’t take all the credit. I had _plenty_ of help from _you,_ Mister Bright.” Sterling assured.

Malcolm felt sick.

“I have been known to work _wonders_ for my clients,” Sterling bragged. “Just look at the deal I made for your _father.”_

Malcolm maintained control of his expression, though he couldn’t prevent a flash of fear and disgust from swirling in his gut. Sterling was talking about The Surgeon’s cushy cell in Claremont, nothing more. At least, that was the only reference that Sterling believed Malcolm would glean from his words. But the profiler could tell he was thinking of his _other_ deal with the serial killer as well. His most recent one.

“He’s going to hurt someone, Sterling.” Malcolm wasn't necessarily talking about John anymore. “But you don't care about that, do you?”

Sterling smiled faintly.

No. He did not care.

“Don’t worry, Mister Bright. He’ll be back behind bars before you know it.” The lawyer lifted a hand to pat the boy on his shoulder. Hard. Then, he gripped it, and lightly shook it as he leaned in to murmur, “Especially if you’re watching his _every move,_ which I know you will.”

Malcolm allowed him to have the last word, and endured his condescending condemnation. The profiler remained standing there long after the sordid lawyer walked away from him, returning to mingle and laugh and put on a false face among the other dinner guests.

The consultant closed his eyes and breathed, internally analyzing their conversation.

John Watkins’ purpose wasn't fulfilled. The Junkyard Killer was still a pawn in play, meant to serve as a distraction for Malcolm while Sterling and The Surgeon and whoever else that was involved conducted their murder behind his back. John was meant to divide Malcolm’s attention from the case, and in doing so, he would be splitting it from his father.

Malcolm wasn't going to let that happen.

But the fact remained that in two days, Malcolm was going to have his hands full. He was going to have two liberated killers on his radar whose every move needed to be watched. Malcolm did not have eyes in the back of his head, and he could not be in two places at once. He could not turn his back on one, or the other, in fear of what they would do behind it. He was surrounded from all sides, about to be torn apart. The odds were quickly stacking up against him.

If only he could trust his father. The person who was supposed to always have his back. The person who was supposed to be on his _team,_ and _help_ him, and reverse those odds.

But Malcolm couldn’t trust his father. He couldn't afford to believe he’d changed.

And the man who usually _was_ that person to Malcolm --the one he could always trust, the one who always had his back, the one who was on his team and helped him and reversed the odds-- was currently recovering from surgery in a hospital.

Feeling outnumbered and overwhelmed again, Malcolm ran a hand through his hair and went to search for a glass of water, which the catering staff was more than happy to bring to him. After he’d taken a few minutes to calm down and re-hydrate, Malcolm spotted that woman again. The woman who Sterling had been staring at during the speech.

He regained his confidence as he watched her have a serious conversation with her colleagues. This war was not over yet. Hope was not lost. Malcolm had discovered a crucial piece of the puzzle. He’d found Sterling’s target.


	4. Chapter 4

That night, Claremont Psychiatric Hospital was devoid of light.

“They’re rewiring this hall,” Mr. David explained, apologizing for the darkness.

Ainsley’s heels echoed as she followed him into the cell. The door was open, the digital locking mechanism disabled. Plastic sheeting and blue painters tape lined the walls in preparation for tomorrow’s renovation. On the floor, moving boxes waited to be sealed shut and taken away, whereas cans of blue paint patiently waited to be opened and used to paint the new walls. But for now, the milky light of the full moon was the only thing painting the cold walls. The lunar satellite’s shy rays glinted off the diamond texture of the reporter’s azure dress, causing faint patterns of prism-colored spots to scatter across the space.

Ainsley stood near the door, on the safe side of the meaningless red line on the floor, as if she was just as afraid to cross it as ever. The bookshelves were empty and removed from the wall. The desk was already wrapped in a moving blanket, and some more plastic. The swivel chair was wrapped similarly, placed on top of the desk’s protected surface. Ainsley swallowed a lump in her throat and cast her eyes over the places where she’d set up her cameras the last time she was here. She also cast her eyes over the place where Jin had lied on the floor while her father fixed his hemothorax and saved his life. And especially, she cast her eyes over the place where his tether had been attached to the hook on the wall.

Finally, she stepped over the red line and approached the moving boxes in the middle of the room. She opened the cardboard flaps slowly, then ran her fingertips over the spines of the books lying inside, which included nonfiction novels about economics and biographies about prevalent historical figures. She opened another box and found more books, these ones containing classical poetry and prose. The boxes would have been far more exhilarating to look through if she hadn’t been wracked with emotion.

A third box yielded some folders that held his drawings. The reporter studied the detailed anatomy sketches with both sadness, fear, and curiosity. She flipped through them gently, but rapidly, her painted nail nicking every page as she released them from beneath her thumb like the folders were books of their own. All of the sketches were made with charcoal or crayon; art utensils that could not be sharpened or used for anything other than what they were intended to be used for. Even so, he’d used the tools masterfully, shading each image with deliberate strokes and applying varying degrees of weight to his lines.

She stopped flipping through the sketches when she caught sight of one that was different than the others. Something that was not an anatomical drawing of a hand, or a leg, or a torso, or a skull, or an organ, or bones. Ainsley stopped and looked at a sketch of a little boy.

The boy was climbing a playground at a park.

Ainsley kept flipping through the sketches, looking more carefully this time. She found a few more drawings of the boy. One of him balancing on a log that crossed a creek in the woods, one of him doing his homework at the kitchen table, one of him sitting in his bed, wearing his pajamas and holding a large book with that trademark look of concentration on his face.

She flipped to the last sketch in the folder. It was a labeled diagram of the organs in the human abdominal cavity, all ‘removed’ and ‘laid out’ for the viewer to better study them.

Ainsley closed the folder and debated looking through the remaining two collections, wondering if her father had ever sketched a little girl, too. For the first time in her life, she did not pursue an answer. She decided that she would prefer to be left wondering than to be found disappointed.

“Is there anything you’d like to take?” Mr. David asked.

The reporter stood up, turned to the guard, and asked for only one thing.

Mr. David took her to the storage room in the hallway. It was home to the wheeled cart that usually held the box television, or the old corded phone. A block of clay was on a shelf, wrapped in --you guessed it-- plastic to keep its moisture preserved. The tether was coiled up on another shelf, along with the white belt. A few clothes hung from a clothing rack; an orange jumpsuit that hadn’t been worn in more than a decade, three pairs of identical white patient uniforms, and a few undershirts.

And the cardigan.

There was no monster hiding underneath it, this time. There was no red line on the ground preventing her from reaching out to touch it, this time.

That was exactly what she did. But she moved cautiously, as if there was still some risk of being harmed by it if she wasn't careful when she handled it.

It was soft and gentle under her fingertips.

“I tried to wash the blood out, but that’s one stubborn stain,” Mr. David mumbled.

She took the cardigan off its hanger and held it in her hands. The bloodstain blossomed from the left side and spread across the back, also splotching the back of the left arm. The stain had faded to a watery, pale brown color. It was a similar but distorted shade to the beige color of the threads --slightly bleached from the cleaning chemicals. It was like some sort of morbid tie-dye design.

After some hesitation, Ainsley brought the article to her face and breathed in the scent of the collar.

_ Nothing. _

It didn't smell like him.

It didn’t smell like anything at all. The only hint of a scent she could find was the fresh, clean scent from the wash, and the pleasant but generic scent of chemicals from the detergent.

_ His _ scent was gone.  _ He  _ was gone.

She wept into the empty cardigan.

* * *

“Hello, dear!”

“Hey mom,” Malcolm greeted, his smartphone pressed to his ear. “I need your help to identify someone.”

“Oh God, not another  _ murder  _ victim.”

“No, not… not a murder victim,” he assured. At least, he was  _ determined  _ not to let this person become a murder victim. “You know everyone in the city,” he began.

Jessica interjected a humored scoff of, “Everyone  _ worth  _ knowing.”

“Do you know  _ this  _ woman?” Malcolm continued, pressing ‘send’ to shoot her the covert picture he’d taken.

“Why of course!” Jessica chirped after looking at it. “That’s Judge Van de Kamp.”

Malcolm began an internet search on Judge van de Kamp as his mother continued speaking. The profiler was leaning against the railing of the balcony outside of the glass banquet hall. The party was dying down, which meant the judge could leave at any moment. Malcolm had already ensured that Sterling was gone.

“Not many people know this,” Jessica purred proudly, “But Judge Van de Kamp is the  _ only  _ judge who our dear Everett Sterling has lost a case to in more than twenty years!”

After hearing that piece of information, Malcolm blinked, his mind whirling. “She’s the only one who he doesn’t have under his thumb,” he realized. That was why he was after her.

“Yes, that’s why she is my  _ favorite _ ,” Jessica hummed. “But… the feeling is not mutual. She’s a tough one to charm. But I guess that’s what makes her so good at her job.”

“I… I can’t find anything online about a case that Sterling lost,” he said, changing the keywords of his search and scrolling through the results. “There are no articles or anything.”

“Oh, you have to go to the court records site,” Jessica told him. “It’s obnoxiously buried, but it’s there. I’ll send you a link.”

“Yeah, please do,” he mumbled, thinking deeply.

“It’s from ten years ago. I’m fairly certain that Sterling paid the media  _ not  _ to report on it.”

That struck a familiar note. Malcolm’s phone dinged as he received the link she sent to him. Sure enough, the court case in question was that of a certain Scott Talbot. The murderer was sentenced to life in prison by Judge Van de Kamp, despite Sterling’s pompous defense. However, Mr. Talbot ‘died’ a few months later in his cell.

Malcolm sighed, feeling a weight settle in his stomach. That was undoubtedly another reason why Mr. Talbot agreed to help Sterling free The Surgeon to murder the judge; vengeance for his sentencing. It was all connected. However, Malcolm simultaneously felt uplifted. He was discovering more pieces of the puzzle, and was growing closer to solving it.

“Thanks, mom.”

“Anytime, honey!” He could hear the woman’s beaming grin. “Oh, before you go! Are you coming over for dinner Friday night?”

“Um. Maybe,” he answered distractedly, already looking through the glass wall to try and spot the judge inside the dining hall. “Been kinda busy lately.”

“Ugh. You’re  _ always  _ busy. Just like your--”

They both stopped.

Malcolm gave his phone a disappointed look. “Were you going to say ‘my father?”’

He’d never heard his mother stay silent for so long. It was almost concerning.

Finally, she sighed. “I’m sorry, dear. I was just reminded of his  _ stupid  _ hospital shifts. Those  _ hours! _ ” she groaned. “Of course, knowing what I know now, there’s no telling how many of them were just alibis.”

“Try not to think about him. Okay?” Malcolm advised.

“Oh, trust me, I do try,” she grumbled. “Every single day.”

Malcolm made a sympathetic face, and prayed that she was not going to drink again tonight. “I love you,” he told her --earnestly, and with all the love he had for her in his heart.

“I love you too, darling,” she smiled, reciprocating the sentiment. “Be safe. And for  _ God’s  _ sake!  _ Eat  _ something!”

The profiler chuckled, and promised, “I will.”

* * *

_ “There _ you boys are!” Malcolm’s mother gasped angrily. “Where did you two run off to? I was trapped with Mister Dawes this whole time, with  _ no one _ to rescue me!”

Malcolm’s father lightly shushed her, asking her to keep her volume down so she didn’t wake the child who was nearly asleep on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Jessie, I didn't let him out of my sight.” Martin murmured in his gentle  _ ‘you’re overreacting, dear’ _ voice. Malcolm felt the man’s throat reverberate against his forehead. “I’d never let anything bad happen to him.”

“I know, Martin. I’m not worried about that.” Jessica’s voice was less harsh and loud, which Malcolm was grateful for. He was indeed trying to sink into sleep. “I’m worried about what you’re teaching him.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asked distractedly.

Malcolm could feel his father move as Martin carried him on his hip. The half-conscious boy was vaguely aware that Ainsley and Miss Louisa were nearby, all readying to leave the banquet. Little Ainsley wasn't making a racket, so she was undoubtedly asleep too.

“You’re teaching him that he can get away with... misbehaving!” Jessica whined.

“Well,” Malcolm heard his father smirk. “Sometimes, he can.”

His mother scoffed in response, and Malcolm could hear her roll her eyes.

The child subtly smiled against the fabric of his father’s tuxedo lapel, and continued to drift off to sleep, breathing in the scent of his father’s expensive cologne like it was anesthesia. On the cusp of consciousness, the last thing he vaguely registered was the gentle pressure of his father’s hand on his skull.

He had full faith that his dad would safely deliver him home, in one piece.

* * *

“Judge Van de Kamp?”

The woman turned and gave the profiler a blank, bored look.

“Hi!” Malcolm smiled brightly. “How are you?”

The judge did not answer him, and his friendliness was not returned.

“Uh, I was hoping you had some time to set up an interview,” Malcolm said. “You see, my sister works for Direct News Nation, and she was wondering if she could ask you a few questions about a case you presided over, a few years ago.”

“Who’s your sister?” the judge asked curtly.

He hesitated for a second, knowing what was coming. The realization of who he was; a serial killer’s son. “Uh, Ainsley Whitly.”

As he expected, that realization came. He saw it lazily cross the older woman’s face. “You’re Malcolm, aren’t you?” she asked dully, appearing even less interested in talking to him than before.

“Yes, sorry, I didn’t introduce myself,” he apologized, shaking his head. He kept his hands in his pockets, predicting that she would decline to shake his hand if he offered it. “Malcolm Bright.”

“Bright?” she cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes. I changed my name,” he explained, removing one hand from his pocket to gesture and chuckle, “For obvious reasons.”

His lighthearted joke did not tickle her. She cast her eyes up and down his figure and muttered a judgmental, “Good call.”

Malcolm’s mother had been right. Judge Van de Kamp did not seem the type of person who made friends easily.

She faced him more directly, folding her arms over her chest. Her dress was plain and black, almost funeral-like. She’d made no effort to dazzle herself up like the other women at the gala did. “What case, in particular, is _ ‘your sister’ _ so curious about?” the judge asked in a knowing tone.

Malcolm realized that she could see through him.

_ ‘If you use that as a cover, he’s going to see right though it,’ _ the memory of Dr. Whitly’s voice growled.  _ ‘He can read people, like we can.’ _

Judge van de Kamp could read him, even better than Everett Sterling could. It caught Malcolm by surprise and intimidated him, for he was not expecting it. He had to be careful about what lies he crafted around her, because he was not going to be able to get away with all of them. It was clear that he was better off telling her as many truthful things as he could.

“The one about Scott Talbot,” he answered.

“You know of that case?”

“I do,” he nodded. “It was the case that broke Everett Sterling’s winning streak.” Making a face, he sighed and guiltily added, “Which began when he represented my father in court twenty three years ago.”

Judge Van de Kamp’s face remained cold and stoic. “I do not intend any offense, Mister Bright, but your father should be in a grave right now.”

Malcolm debated telling her, “Well, at this point, he probably is.”

She gave him a single nod, one that held a combination of acceptance, sympathy, and ‘good riddance.’

“And, to be honest, I think he should have been in a grave a long time ago,” Malcolm told her.

That piqued her interest.

“Judge, you seem like an honest person. A  _ good  _ person, and I wanted to ask you…” Malcolm dove straight to the  _ real _ questions he wanted to ask her. “How did Sterling win my father’s court case? I mean, turning a  _ death  _ sentence into a pampered  _ life  _ sentence in a  _ luxury cell? _ The guy committed twenty three murders! How did Sterling get away with that?”

Judge Van de Kamp glanced around her. “Because, Mister Bright… Everett Sterling is a  _ crook,” _ she muttered, less than pleased about what she was telling him. “He bribes judges when no one’s looking.  _ Threatens _ them, if he has to.”

“Has he ever done those things to you?” Malcolm asked. He was faking his surprise, but not his concern.

“He has tried to bribe me before, but I refused his offer. And then I beat him to the ‘threatening’ part. Gave him an earful and threatened legal consequence if he ever dared do such a thing again.” She turned to look at the stage, which was empty of any more speakers.

After taking a moment to sigh and shake her head, she murmured, “I shouldn’t have let him off so easy. I should have ended it, right then and there. You give a man as conniving as that a second chance, and he’ll make you regret it.”

Malcolm glanced down, reminded of his father. He tried to ignore the uneasy feeling in his stomach, as well as the guilt that ate away at his heart like corrosive acid. 

“That was ten years ago?” the profiler inquired. “During Scott’s case?”

“It was.”

Malcolm genuinely told her, “I commend you for doing the right thing, Judge Van de Kamp.”

If she had been like all the other judges whom Sterling had bribed, and succumbed to his coercion, then a murderer would have walked free from prison. Unfortunately, it seemed that was what had happened to Mr. Talbot anyway.

“I didn’t do anything heroic, Mister Bright,” the judge argued. “Integrity should be the bare minimum required of any human being.”

The profiler nodded, soaking in her words.

Their conversation settled. Judge Van de Kamp could have walked away at that moment, but she didn’t. Instead, she surveyed the presentation materials that were still onstage, and asked, “What do you think of these new surgical machines, Mister Bright?”

“Um…” He tore his attention away from her and glanced over the displays. “I think they’re the way of the future, for sure, but… I don't think surgeons could ever  _ entirely  _ be replaced with technology. Humans need to be the ones to treat humans.”

“But I think it will help,” he yielded, gesturing in a half-shrug. “The optical features look impressive and the magnification is fantastic. Microsurgeries are going to be much easier to perform, since  _ robotic  _ hands don't tremble,” he smirked. He knew firsthand how difficult it was to function with trembling fingers.

“What about you?” he asked. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s a pain in the neck no matter who --or  _ what-- _ does it,” the judge grumbled. “I was scheduled for a surgery in March, but they had to reschedule it to a  _ sooner date  _ because of this surprise renovation.”

Malcolm furrowed his brow. “You were?”

The judge nodded. “I had to postpone almost all of my court cases for it. You can bet Mister Sterling’s happy about that. Gives him a few weeks to build a better bullshit defense for his newest client.”

“Who is his newest client?” Malcolm prompted.

“A man who is accused of being a serial child rapist --with substantial evidence,” Judge Van de Kamp grumbled. “I can't give you any details. Not that I think you’d enjoy hearing them anyway.”

That news disgusted the profiler. Another death sentence that Sterling was planning to ‘work wonders’ on and transform into a life sentence in a cushy cell.

The judge noticed his revulsion. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Mister Bright. I highly doubt that Sterling’s going to be able to present a powerful enough defense to sway  _ me. _ And he sure as hell isn’t going to  _ dare  _ try to bribe me again, or I’ll have him locked up on the spot.”

Malcolm appreciated that she was trying to console him, but he did still worry about it, because he knew something worse than bribery was in store for her. Sterling was going to kill her before she had a chance to preside over that court case, and Malcolm had a pretty good idea of how he was going to set up the murder.

“May I ask what your surgery is for?”

It seemed that the judge was not going to answer him, and the profiler prepared an apology for asking such an intrusive question. But before he could, the woman turned back to him and answered with a rare hint of softness in her voice. “I have breast cancer, Mister Bright.”

“Oh,” he hummed sadly, reminded of the tumor in Gil’s neck. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’ve been told it’s nothing a surgery can’t take care of,” she warranted, acknowledging her luck. “Though, I don’t know which I’d rather prefer; some robot digging around inside me, or someone’s bare hands.”

Malcolm made a face, and didn’t say anything.

But he did quietly mention, “They wear gloves.”  The  _ good _ ones did, anyway.

She chuckled dryly. “I guess that’s true.”

Briefly, he praised himself for accomplishing the feat of getting her to open up to him, and even laugh a little.

Her sour attitude quickly returned. “I hate hospitals,” she grumbled. “I just want them to knock me out for a  _ week _ until I’m all healed up and can go back to work again.”

Malcolm could empathize with that. He asked her one last crucial question.

“When is your surgery scheduled for?”

* * *

Ainsley couldn’t sleep.

Her loft felt cold and empty, like a prison cell. Vacant and hollow, like the hole in her heart. She stood at the glass wall beside her bed, fiddling with the thin chain of a necklace hanging loosely around her throat while her liberated, messy blonde curls swarmed her bare shoulders. The necklace was the only glamorous thing that remained on her body from the formal outfit she’d worn at the dinner party.

Standing in her bra and underwear, she stared out through her tall windows, first at the city lights that twinkled at her from the distance, then at the full pale moon that gazed down at her from the heavens.

The white circle in the sky was drastically different from the black lens of her camera. The lunar satellite seemed to glow with some sort of eerie life above her. It captivated her attention, and somehow soothed her pain. She’d never stared at the moon like she stared up at it that night.

All she could think about was her father, and how he and Malcolm might have stared up at that same moon while they were out on a camping trip together all those years ago. A camping trip that she never went on, and would never get to go on.

She pulled the soft fabric of a certain beige cardigan over her shoulders, closing it around her chest like a robe. Folding her arms, she hugged the sweater-like material to her stomach and turned back to look at her disheveled bed.

After a while, she settled back onto the mattress, but didn't bother pulling the sheets over her. She slept atop them, with only that cardigan draped over her hourglass shape.

It kept her plenty warm.

* * *

Malcolm felt his body shift as he was carefully transferred onto his mattress. He slightly resurfaced from his sleep as his father smoothed down his hair with a warm palm, coaxing him back into blissful unawareness. It worked, and Malcolm began to descend into dormancy once more, knowing that he was back home, in his bedroom, and that all was well.

But then he felt a dragging sensation over his abdomen.

Drowsily curious, but not alarmed in the least, the boy lifted his eyelids.

His father sat beside him on the edge of the bed, his smile surrounded by his thick chestnut-colored beard. He held up a curved dagger in his hand, showing it off.

Malcolm emerged further from sleep. His eyes widened as he gasped.

“Is that a  _ dinosaur claw?” _

“It’s a Velociraptor talon,” his father affirmed smugly, holding it out to him.

The boy eagerly accepted the fossilized weapon and examined it like it was an invaluable treasure. “Dad, you  _ stole  _ it,” he grinned, delighted to receive such a naughty gift.

“No, I simply found it,” Martin murmured with a smirk, assuring the boy, “They won’t even notice it’s gone.”

Malcolm slowly turned it over in his small hands and dreamily admired it. It was the coolest gift he’d ever received. “Thanks, dad,” he whispered --earnestly, and with all the love he had for him in his heart.

“You’re  _ very  _ welcome,” Martin smiled, reciprocating the sentiment. “Don’t lose it.”

The sleepy child grinned, and promised, “I won’t.”


	5. Chapter 5

_‘Embrace change.’_

That was what Malcolm’s affirmation card said the next morning. Just two little words, yet their message daunted him. He accepted the universe’s advice with a mumbled, “Okay,” and placed the affirmation on his refrigerator.

With only a pair of drawstring sweatpants around his hips, the profiler began his day by commencing his yoga routine. With the aid of a tranquil soundtrack, he stretched his hamstrings, quads, and even worked in some slow push-ups to give his pectorals, deltoids, and triceps some attention. But it was not so much a workout session as it was a meditative session. Throughout the exercise, Malcolm kept his head clear, his mind at peace, and his body balanced.

* * *

Mr. David murmured reminders of caution as he escorted the movers out of Claremont Psychiatric Hospital. Luckily, there was not much to move, and the job was finished in no time. There were two vans at the loading dock. The bookshelves went in one vehicle while the desk, chair, and boxes went in the other. The two vans rolled out of Claremont’s gates and diverged, heading in opposite directions.

* * *

Ainsley didn’t want to get out of bed. Her lack of motivation was not due to laziness or tiredness. It was due to something much deeper, and much more powerful. Today was just going to be one of those days, she accepted. One of those days which would be incredibly difficult to endure. One of those days where she would need to force herself to get out of bed and force herself to not only get ready for work, but also _go_ to work. 

She forced herself to eat something for breakfast --even if it was just a nutrition bar-- and then forced herself to take off that cardigan and hang it up in her closet so she could take a shower and get changed into something appropriate for work. After sculpting her hair and donning her business attire, the reporter peered into her bathroom mirror to paint calm, controlled strokes of liquid eyeliner under her lashes. The tiny brush moved carefully and smoothly over the delicate skin of her eyelids, following the edges.

* * *

Calm, controlled strokes of blue paint caressed over the faded red pigment in The Surgeon’s old cell. The wide brush moved carefully and smoothly over the walls, following the edges. The guard knelt on the concrete as he erased the familiar fiery color. In its place, an oceanic hue steadily permeated through the room. The last thing he painted was the door.

It was indeed therapeutic. 

When the transformation was complete, the guard straightened his spine and rose to his feet. A pair of empty paint cans hung from his curled fingers, and the plastic sheeting that had lined the floor was now balled up under his arm. He cast one last lingering look around the cell, as if saying a final goodbye, and then he left.

It was time to move on to his next patient.

* * *

The profiler straightened his spine and rose to his feet, exhaling a drawn-out sigh. With a click of a button, his meditative soundtrack halted.

Now, it was back to business.

The young man marched over to a whiteboard, plucked off the lid to a dry-erase marker, and began drawing an outline of his case. At the top of the diagram, he scrawled the letters ‘ES’ for Everett Sterling.

Branching off to the left, he connected three boxes in a vertical line and titled the column, ‘Transport Van.’ In the first box, he wrote the letters ‘DrW’ for Dr. Whitly. In the second box, he wrote ‘ST’ for ‘Scott Talbot.’ In the third box, he carved a big fat question mark and drew an icon of a gas tank beside it.

Malcolm paused to frown at that question mark. He still needed information about the man who was in the back of the van with his father during his escape. The man who had released the carbon monoxide and killed two of the Claremont guards. However, his father claimed that he couldn’t tell him about that man.

_“It’s for the best, son. Trust me. If you knew why I couldn’t tell you about him, then you would agree.”_

Sterling was holding something over Dr. Whitly’s head which prevented him from telling the profiler more about that man --something besides Malcolm’s own life. A secondary threat. Another piece of blackmail.

Supposedly.

There was always the possibility that his dad was simply being a dick about sharing valuable information. Malcolm truly didn’t know which scenario was more likely.

Half-dressed, the profiler continued filling out the whiteboard. He drew another box and labeled it ‘The Pyro’ with a big question mark inside it. He connected that box up to Everett Sterling, but not over to the Transport Van column. 

_“I don’t think we’re going to see anymore of him, whoever he was. I think the pyro’s purpose has been fulfilled.”_

Malcolm kept The Pyro’s name on the board. Even if he was long gone, he was still responsible for the majority of the casualties of the case. He needed to be caught. Eventually.

But Malcolm’s primary focus was on Sterling’s next target.

To the far right, he wrote the acronym ‘JVdK’ and circled it. Twice. Then he wrote Judge Van de Kamp’s scheduled surgery date in large lettering. Friday, February 21st.

They still had time.

After plugging in all of his puzzle pieces, Malcolm stared at the remaining holes he had to fill. There were more than he cared for, especially with a ‘meeting of killers’ only two days away. He jotted that detail down as he recalled what his father had told him about it.

_“When will you see Sterling next?”_

_“On the evening of the fourteenth.”_

Malcolm blinked as he saw that number take shape on the board. The 14th. He’d _just_ realized that was Valentine’s Day. The profiler’s mind was briefly distracted by thoughts of Detective Powell and the terribly awkward conversation he’d recently had with her about the holiday.

He tried to ignore them and focus on work. His priorities lied in preventing another murder, not in securing a date with the girl he had a crush on.

But Dani was so much more than just the girl he had a crush on.

 _Focus,_ he ordered himself.

_“Is that meeting real?”_

_“Yes. It is.”_

_“Can you tell me where it will be? Or what time?”_

_“I’m not allowed to bring any friends, son. But I will tell you all about it, after it’s done.”_

The profiler didn’t believe that for a second. He couldn't afford to rely on his father to tell him anything, much less the complete truth. Malcolm needed to be at that meeting _himself_ \--preferably as a fly on the wall.

Or, as a bug in his father’s ear.

A harsh electronic _buzz_ startled the consultant out of his concentration. He glanced at the ringing door, flipped over his whiteboard to hide it, and then answered the visitors’ call.

* * *

Malcolm tipped the movers generously before bidding them farewell. Alone in his apartment again, he cast a dull glance over the items that had been delivered to him. He unboxed the books first, adding them to his own collection according to genre. When _The Count of Monte Cristo_ appeared in his hand, he found himself unsure of where to file it. He ended up setting it aside to be put away later. Then, with a crackle of plastic, he removed the protective sheeting and moving blankets from the desk and chair.

His _father’s_ desk, and chair.

It was incredibly unnerving to see them there, in his home. Malcolm didn't like it, but he also didn't _hate_ it as much as he expected he would. In fact, there was a hint of smugness attached to his incredulous smirk. A hint of triumph. Dominance. Because _Malcolm_ had taken something from _Martin,_ for once, instead of the other way around. It kind of felt good, in a vengeful way, to claim his father’s old possessions as his own.

_‘Embrace change.’_

Malcolm nodded. “Okay.”

Careful not to scratch his floor, the profiler slid the piece of furniture over to the brick half wall underneath his staircase. He placed some things on the desk; a few files, a letter opener, a notepad, a fountain pen --his _own_ things, not his dad’s-- adorning it the way _he_ wanted to. It was like some kind of ritual for him.

Finally, all that was left to do was decide whether or not he should sit in that swivel chair.

Malcolm hesitated, staring at it as if it were a trap. Placing himself in that thing would serve as the final step to laying claim to his father’s furniture. But for some reason, he feared that that stupid chair might be the one to triumph instead; laying claim to him. The chair seemed to stare back, waiting for him to make his choice. It sat there, unassuming and docile, though Malcolm couldn’t help but see it as a bloodstained throne.

It seemed to challenge him; asking ‘Who was _really_ the one being changed, here? Martin? Or Malcolm?’

But that was ridiculous. It was just a chair, and the profiler shouldn’t see it as anything more sinister than that. He stepped towards it.

Malcolm jumped as his smartphone rang. He turned his back on his new furniture to retrieve the device from the kitchen counter, catching a glimpse of the name on the caller I.D.

Answering it, he drew the phone up to his ear. “Hey Ains, what’s up?”

“Did you send me flowers?”

* * *

Ainsley was sitting in the dressing room of her news station. The large, well-lit mirror in front of her showed a beaming grin on her face as she touched the large white petals of the lilies in her bouquet. Accompanying the blooming lilies were cream-colored carnations and blue hydrangeas. The arrangement was padded with ferns and eucalyptus --all packed neatly in a cobalt vase.

“What? No, I didn’t,” her brother’s voice answered on the phone.

“Well, I _know_ it wasn’t Jin,” Ainsley scoffed, rolling her eyes. The grin remained on her face as she continued admiring the thoughtful mystery gift. “They’re absolutely gorgeous! And they look expensive.”

Malcolm sounded flustered. “W-was there a card or anything with them?”

“No, they were completely anonymous,” Ainsley crooned, her voice musically playful. “They’re from that fancy flower shop on Fourth that mom likes. But I know they’re not from mom. I already asked her.” She stood up and pressed the phone against her shoulder as she carried the vase out to her desk in the newsroom. “Are you _sure_ it wasn't you?” she smirked, believing he was feigning innocence to maintain the surprise.

“Oh, I’m _very_ sure.”

He didn’t sound very happy. In fact, he’d almost snapped at her.

Ainsley’s smile wavered. The conversation had suddenly taken an uncomfortable turn. “Okay….” she drawled, making a face. Was he _seriously_ angry with her right now? 

Malcolm sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s probably some stupid secret admirer, or something.”

 _“Stupid?”_ she echoed, blinking in disbelief. “Excuse--”

“Your face is all over the news every single day, Ains.”

“Yeah, and?”

“You gotta be careful about stalkers and creepers and stuff. Don’t accept any more anonymous gifts.”

“Malcolm, I’m not an idiot!” she protested. Ainsley didn’t appreciate him twisting her sweet surprise into a dark, dirty thing. “I really did think it was you,” she attested, her spirits sagging as she sat down at her desk and looked at the vase of flowers in her lap.

“Well, it wasn’t,” he repeated curtly.

“Okay then!” she whined defensively. “Sorry, jeez.”

Her brother abruptly hung up.

She pulled the phone away from her face and gave it a disgusted look. “Asshole.” Tossing her phone on her desk, she shook her head and tried _\--really_ tried-- not to let his caustic attitude injure her. The more she gazed at the soft lily petals, the more her emotions slowly healed. She decided that it didn’t matter who had sent the vase of flowers. What mattered was; _someone_ had sent them, and they were gorgeous, and they made her just a little less miserable than if she hadn’t been gifted them at all.

* * *

Malcolm switched out his smartphone for his flip phone. He glared at his new furniture as he hit the speed dial button. When his call was picked up, Malcolm asked in a low, dark tone, “Did you honestly think I wasn’t going to find out?”

“About what?”

“About the bouquet you sent Ainsley,” the profiler growled.

“Oh, good!” his father’s voice cheered. “She got her flowers!”

Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose, working to keep his anger under control.

“I was worried they’d get lost in delivery,” his father murmured over the phone.

“I said _no_ contacting her,” Malcolm reiterated crossly.

“I didn’t contact her,” Martin claimed. An innocent whine lied beneath his victimized tone. “I just sent her a gift, that’s all.”

“That’s contact!” Malcolm snapped, moving away from his kitchen counter to begin pacing back and forth.

“No, it’s not,” his father argued patiently. “It’s just an anonymous vase of flowers, that’s all. There’s no harm in that, son.”

“It’s not about harm, it’s about following my rules,” Malcolm scolded.

“All of which are about doing _no harm,_ which I have done,” Martin eased. Then, he corrected, “Er... _Not_ done. You understand what I mean.”

Malcolm wasn't having it. “I gave you a very _clear, short_ list of rules, and you are _required_ to follow them. There _will_ be consequences if you don’t,” he threatened.

“Well, apparently, we had different interpretations of--”

“No, no,” Malcolm cut him off. “Shut up. _Shut up,_ dad. I know _exactly_ what you’re doing, you’re trying to test my--”

Dr. Whitly struggled to secure his right to speak. “Son, I’m--!”

But Malcolm seized control. “No, _listen to me._ Listen to me, _right now.”_

Martin shut up, and listened.

“You are trying to test my boundaries so you can stretch them, and I am _not_ going to let you do that. My boundaries are _not_ budging, and you are under _tight_ constraints, do you understand?”

Martin remained silent, for once.

The profiler prompted a firm, _“Answer me.”_

After a moment, Dr. Whitly despondently muttered, “I cannot _believe_ you are yelling at me for doing something _nice.”_

That stung.

Malcolm’s fire quelled slightly as he analyzed if that _was_ what he was doing. With a slightly less harsh tone, he corrected, “I am yelling at you because you broke a rule.”

With a dash of sass, Martin quipped, “Oh, and since when did _you_ become such a devout rule-follower?”

A flare of defensiveness cropped up in Malcolm’s chest. He knew he wasn't perfect, and he knew he didn’t follow the appropriate protocols _all_ the time (the entire FBI _and_ NYPD could attest to that) but he was not going to let _The Surgeon,_ of all people, judge his moral alignment.

“Since _you_ broke--!” The profiler hissed back a counter-attack, but stopped himself before he could pick the right word to finish his sentence. There were many things his father had broken, the profiler’s heart being one of them. But Malcolm didn’t say that word. He kept the conversation locked onto the topic of ‘rules.’

“Since you broke the most important one,” he finished.

Thou shalt not kill. _That_ was the most important rule, and Dr. Whitly had broken it more than twenty three times. It was so important, it was one of the ten commandments --not that they were an incredibly religious family. Obviously.

Martin’s voice was gentle, and calm. “I am not going to break it again, son.”

The man didn’t specify _what_ he wouldn't break again.

Malcolm clenched his jaw and turned his gaze to the floor. He _wanted_ to believe what his father said. He _wanted_ to believe that Dr. Whitly was referring to his son’s heart as well as that rule. Malcolm _wanted_ to be comforted and reassured, but he couldn’t allow himself to be. He had to take everything his father said with a grain of salt. He had to listen to the distrusting voice that lingered in the back of his mind which perpetually reminded him, ‘He’s just saying this, or doing this, to manipulate me.’ 

That was _always_ a possibility, when it came to his father. Malcolm knew that better than anyone.

“Malcolm, no matter what I do, you are going to claim I have ill intentions.”

The profiler continued glaring at the floor.

“I thought we agreed to trust each other,” his father reminded. “Now, _I,_ for one, have done that. I have _completely_ trusted you, Malcolm. I haven’t accused you of anything nefarious, yet every chance you get, you hold a magnifying glass up to me.”

Malcolm didn’t say anything.

“I could have sent Ainsley a card, but I didn’t. I could have done a number of _other_ things over the past week, but I _haven’t._ I am trying _very_ hard to obey your rules, son. I am trying _very_ hard,” he took a breath, “to be _good._ ”

Malcolm listened, analyzing his father’s every hesitation and pause.

“All I want... is for you to be proud of me, son.”

It was impossible for Malcolm not to feel a stab of emotion while hearing that.

 _“_ But it’s disheartening when you continue to treat me like my hands are _constantly_ covered in blood. Like I’m not allowed to touch _anything_ , or I’ll somehow destroy it. It’s enough to make a person want to... to give up, sometimes.”

Whatever spell or illusion that may have started to enchant the profiler instantly shattered.

With a disappointed frown, Malcolm asked, “Is that a threat?”

“No,” Martin answered. “No, I’m just… I’m just venting, son. A man can vent, can’t he?”

“Just checking,” Malcolm mumbled.

“You’re _always_ checking. That’s exactly my point.”

A hint of guilt crept through Malcolm’s conscience, but he lightly argued, “You can’t blame me for that.”

“No, but it seems like _you_ can blame _me_ for anything and everything,” his father grumbled. With a small sigh, he added, “I’m simply trying to express how I _feel_ to you, son. It’s not very easy for me to do that.”

Malcolm nodded in acceptance.

After a thoughtful pause, Dr. Whitly recalled an easier way to convey his emotions, and explained, “If I were texting you right now, I would be sending you lots of _sad_ icons. Maybe one angry icon --but _mostly,_ sad.”

A small puff of a humored breath escaped from the profiler, and he couldn’t stop a smirk from flashing across his face. Alone in his apartment, with no one there to see it, he allowed it to linger on his lips for a moment. Together, on opposite ends of that phone call, they smiled.

“Yeah, I think I’d send you the same,” Malcolm muttered through his smile. “Except with a few more angry ones.”

He heard his father release a humored breath of his own. Slowly, their smiles faded.

Martin spoke again. “I understand that you have trust issues, son. Especially with me. And I understand that that is… _completely_ my fault.”

Malcolm grimaced with emotion again. Was he actually hearing this right now? Was _The Surgeon,_ of all people, truly saying these things?

“I take full responsibility for that, alright?”

Malcolm clenched his fist as if he was tightening his grip on his metaphorical shield. He clung to that shield and strained to keep his guard up, over his heart. 

“But I… I need more credit from you, Malcolm.” A measure of caution coated Dr. Whitly’s gentle tone. He knew that he was asking a lot.

Malcolm closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, holding back his feelings. He’d already given his father everything he had to give, twenty years ago. All of his trust. All of his faith. All of his _love._ But that was before his father had burned him. Not slowly, like a creeping flame --but sharply, like the sudden sting of a stove top. Malcolm was deathly afraid of getting hurt like that again.

“Can you give me just a little bit more?”

The consultant lifted his head and took a breath, formulating his answer. His eyes landed on the affirmation card that was attached to his refrigerator.

_‘Embrace change.’_

His father was _trying_ to change.

Malcolm thought about what the man had said about a person giving up, and although it hadn’t been intended as a threat, it did worry the profiler. Malcolm couldn't solely chastise Dr. Whitly for his mistakes. He had to reward him for his efforts too, or else he had no incentive to continue making those efforts. The consultant decided that he _should_ give his father more encouragement, lest he decide to give up.

“I appreciate that you are trying, dad,” Malcolm said. “I really do.”

“Good,” Martin murmured with a warm relief. “It makes me want to _keep_ trying, when I hear things like that from you.”

Malcolm nodded again, but the voice in the back of his mind remained wary.

“I am sorry that sending those flowers to your sister made you so upset,” Dr. Whitly apologized. “But I had to do it, son. Ainsley was _miserable_ on TV last night.” 

Malcolm cast his gaze downward again, his spirits sagging further.

“You told her I was dead, didn’t you?”

“I… alluded to it,” Malcolm admitted. “Strongly.”

“Well, you picked one hell of a time to do it,” Martin commented.

Malcolm couldn’t argue with that. He hadn’t intended to ruin his sister’s night, and it dismayed him to hear that it had affected her performance during her live shot. When Ainsley had called him about those flowers, she’d sounded _happy._ But then he’d destroyed her happiness by reacting the way he did. He’d made everything worse for her, while his father had only tried to make everything better. It was painfully ironic.

“Yeah, well… it’s not your job to fix it,” Malcolm muttered, angry with himself. “So. Stay out of it.”

 _“Somebody’s_ gotta care for her.”

Malcolm glared at the far wall. “Are you accusing me of not caring for her?”

“Did _you_ send her flowers?” Dr. Whitly asked.

Malcolm rolled his eyes, but the truth was, he felt a pit of shame open up in his stomach. 

“No, I didn’t think so,” Dr. Whitly answered. He went on to inquire, “Is she still with that cameraman? What was his name? Jim?”

“Jin, with an ‘N,’” Malcolm corrected, sighing, “And no, she’s not.”

“That’s too bad,” Dr. Whitly murmured. “I worry about her, you know. I worry that she doesn’t... _have_ anybody.”

“She has me and mom,” Malcolm argued.

“Oh, I’m sure Jessie’s as distracted as always, with her stupid little luncheons and tea parties,” Martin grumbled. “And _you,_ well,” he chuckled.

Malcolm grew defensive again. “‘And I’ what?”

“You’re always chasing after your next _murder,”_ Martin finished with a smirk. He added a reluctant, _“Case,”_ to clarify.

Malcolm rolled his eyes again.

“Aren’t you?” 

The profiler firmly told him, “I make time for Ainsley and mom.”

“Do you? When?”

“We have weekly family dinners.”

“And you go to those family dinners?”

Malcolm didn’t hesitate to reply, “I do.”

His father continued lightly grilling him. “How often?”

“As often as I am _able to,”_ Malcolm answered, his tone advising the man to drop it.

Martin gently responded, “I don’t mean to criticize your priorities, son, but I do hope you understand that family is everything.”

The profiler shook his head and kept his mouth shut, unwilling to fuel this argument.

“As you know, it… it took me a long time to get my own priorities straight,” Dr. Whitly admitted with some difficulty.

Malcolm listened.

“Trust me, you don’t… you don’t want to look back one day, when it’s too late, and wish you’d spent less time obsessing over… _other_ things.”

Malcolm thought about those words, and he softened. He’d never heard his father be so remorseful before.

After a moment, the consultant cleared his throat and moved on, yielding, “I’ll check up on her more often, if that’s what you want. Okay? But no more flowers.”

He heard his father grin as he agreed, “It’s a deal.”

Malcolm nodded, feeling renewed. He was going to do better about being there for his family. He was going to do better about attending those family dinners, and he would do better about keeping work at work. He would no longer let it encroach on precious time with his mother and sister.

He was going to change.

“I’ll see you later tonight, alright?” his father concluded. “I want to hear _all_ about what you learned at the party last night.”

Malcolm felt another absurd flash of fear. Once again, Dr. Whitly was the one initiating their parting. Malcolm couldn't stand it. “Wait,” he blurted quickly.

“What is it, son? I have to get back to work.”

“You’re at work?” 

“Yes.”

“Meaning the construction job?” 

_“Yes,_ the construction job,” Dr. Whitly emphasized. Malcolm was _checking_ again.

“What’s the address?” Malcolm moved to his new desk to get a pen ready.

“I’m not _lying_ to you, Malcolm, I really am--”

“I know you’re not, that’s not--” Malcolm waved his hand in the air and clarified, “I just need to see you.”

“Right _now?”_

 _“Yes_ , right now.” Malcolm pinned the Nokia to his shoulder and picked up the notepad and pen.

“Can’t we meet up _later?”_ his father’s voice winced.

“No, it has to be now,” Malcolm lied. “It’s time-sensitive, okay? It’s about the case.”

Martin’s voice sighed.

“I’ll meet you wherever you are. What’s the address?” Malcolm asked again. He was itching to write on the notepad resting on his knee.

His father evaded the question. “Malcolm, this really isn’t the best time. We’re in the middle of a job.”

“Address,” Malcolm repeated impatiently, then softly added, “Please.”

Martin still didn’t give him one.

“Come on, it’ll be like Take-Your-Kid-To-Work-Day!” Malcolm offered, attempting to entice him with a fun way to think about it. 

Martin’s voice was not playful. “Not today, Malcolm.”

“Dad, come on,” the profiler chuckled. It was a nervous chuckle. His smile crumbled as his fear overpowered his poker face. “Are you… are you seriously turning down a chance to see me?” he asked, as if his heart was at risk of breaking all over again. 

“I can see you _after_ work,” Martin assured him optimistically. “Like usual.” 

Malcolm leaned back in his chair and tossed his hand up. “You literally _just_ gave me a lecture about putting family first!” His father’s hypocritical nature was unbelievable.

“Malcolm, I _really_ don’t think my coworkers would feel _comfortable_ with someone from the NYPD showing up out of the blue today.”

Malcolm glanced around his home, processing that sentence. He temporarily ignored the questions it sparked within his mind, and tried again to change his father’s mind. “Well, today I’m _not_ with the NYPD. Today I’m just... your son.”

There was a long pause in their conversation.

“I need to see you,” Malcolm repeated, his tone dejected and hopeless.

Dr. Whitly hesitated a moment longer, then surrendered. “Fine. But... come _casual,_ alright?”

Malcolm grinned triumphantly. “It’s a deal.”

Dr. Whitly gave him the address. 

Malcolm jotted it down, then promised that he’d be there soon. He hung up the call and then realized--

He was sitting in his father’s chair.


	6. Chapter 6

Malcolm Bright gripped the steering wheel, absent-mindedly digging his nails into the leather as he raced across the GW Bridge to New Jersey. He failed to use his turn signal during every lane change, but he didn’t notice. The last time the profiler had raced across the Hudson like this was when he’d raced to the auto-repair shop. He’d been so sure of himself, at that time. He’d believed with utmost certainty that the scene he’d encounter was one with the Jenks Brothers and his father, held hostage. But the actual scene he’d encountered had been entirely different. It had been a set-up.

As a result, the profiler wasn't nearly as sure of himself this time around. The consultant didn’t know what to expect upon arriving at the address Martin had given to him. A storm churned in his chest while questions spiraled in his head as he recollected everything his father had said about his ‘new job’ over the past few days, analyzing each memory to the fullest extent. More than anything, he analyzed the most recent things the man had said. The excuses he’d made. The attempts to dodge a meeting with him at ‘work.’ The comment he’d made about his ‘coworkers’ and their potential discomfort if someone from the NYPD showed up.

Maybe this time Malcolm was racing across that bridge because he was hoping to beat his father to another set-up. Maybe his father was so nervous and averse to seeing him at ‘work’ because his ‘work’ was not at all what he claimed it to be, and now he had to concoct some kind of illusion to prove his cover story. Malcolm’s mind ran wild, but he tried not to let his anxiety get the best of him. He tried to emotionally prepare himself for whatever he’d find at that address.

* * *

The address did lead Malcolm to a construction site, albeit a humble and discreet one. It was a house on the edge of Jamestown, not ten miles from the overpass where they’d met the other night. The garage door was raised, the roof was half-shingled, and the side gate was propped open with a cinder block that matched those of the perimeter fence. Scrap wood littered the dead patch of grass between the sidewalk and the cracked road. The profiler could faintly hear an 80’s radio station playing from an outdated boombox deep inside the garage.

An old, unmarked pickup truck was parked on the curb, equipped with a rack for transporting window panes. A flatbed trailer --brimming with raw materials-- was hitched behind the truck, where a couple of men were unloading cement bags. They were wearing denim and plaid clothing which was just as worn and aged as themselves --a similar style to Dr. Whitly’s recent fashion of attire. A sheen of sweat and grime glistened on their arms and faces. The warm hue of their skin was freckled with dirt. 

They looked over as Malcolm pulled up in his sleek black sedan. The profiler did not hesitate to calmly exit his vehicle, smile at the gentlemen, and inquire about a certain ‘Harold Brown.’

They had no idea who he was talking about.

They also couldn’t speak a single word of the English language.

The words they did speak were curt, rapid, and possessing a slightly grumpy or defensive tone. The two workers cast scrutinous glances over the stranger and muttered to themselves, then called out toward the house. They were soon joined by a third worker, who came out from behind the building using the side gate. He was around Malcolm’s age and understood a little more English, though he still couldn’t construct a complete nor grammatically-correct sentence in it.

Malcolm grew slightly nervous as he continued to try to ask them if they’d seen a person who matched his father’s description. The three men glanced at each other and shook their heads, using their Spanish tongues to vehemently deny any knowledge of such a person.

The voice in the back of the profiler’s head scolded himself for believing his father’s cover story. _‘I told you so,’_ it seemed to chide. _‘I told you he was lying all along. I told you he was only saying whatever he had to say to manipulate you.’_

The storm in Malcolm’s chest grew heavy and turbulent. He apologized for bothering the gentlemen and was about to retreat back to his car when he heard his name called from the entrance of the garage.

The profiler felt a ludicrous amount of relief when he saw his father’s beaming smile.

“You made it!” Martin joined them on the sidewalk after wiping his hands on a rag --which Malcolm certainly took note of. “Fellas, this is my son, Malcolm!” he announced merrily. The three Hispanic men seemed to relax, but they still eyed the profiler suspiciously.

As his coworkers briefly conversed with themselves, Dr. Whitly also dragged a judgmental look over his son. _“This_ is casual?”

Malcolm glanced down at himself. He was wearing a nice button-up shirt, a silk tie, and pressed slacks. His shoes were as black and polished as his sedan and his large gold watch glinted in the morning sunlight.

“Yes, this is casual,’ the profiler answered. Evidently, _business_ casual was not what his father had meant over the phone. 

Dr. Whitly gave him a shrug of _‘Suit yourself.’_ Turning to introduce his coworkers, he gestured to each of them, “Malcolm, this is Rico, Tio, and Hijo.”

Malcolm lifted his hand to execute a pathetic wave and flashed another empty smile at the strangers. “Hi.”

The youngest one, Hijo, returned the smile and wave. The oldest one, Rico, who possessed the calm, wise, and gruff presence of a leader didn’t respond at all, only grabbing a bag of cement from the truck. Tio and Hijo followed suit. Clearly, they ran a private, family-owned contractor service whose newest construction job was a thorough residential remodel. By the way they promptly returned to work, it wasn’t hard to guess that they were on a tight schedule.

Just as Martin had claimed.

The storm in Malcolm’s chest had vanished. All was calm in his heart. He returned his gaze onto his father, slightly stunned.

Dr. Whitly’s smile was as big as ever. It radiated with pride and smugness.

He had been telling the truth about his new job this entire time, and Malcolm had expected _that_ least of all.

The profiler allowed the smallest of smirks to present itself on his lips.

Dr. Whitly’s smile grew. So did Malcolm’s. Thus, they shared a bit of _a_ _moment._

Their moment was interrupted when a couple of cement bags were suddenly deposited in the profiler’s arms. Malcolm balked as he received the heavy weight, nearly dropping the bags. With a slew of gestures and commands, Rico and company laughed at him --seeming intent to enroll him in some manual labor. Tio patted his shoulder in condescending encouragement. Malcolm simply stood there and glanced between them all, at a loss for what to do.

“I think they want you to lend a hand,” his father grinned and winked, “Since you’re here.”

Malcolm’s expression shifted into a displeased glare. Did Martin plant this idea in their heads?

Dr. Whitly was thoroughly entertained by the profiler’s new predicament. “Go on, son,” he murmured, nodding toward his coworkers as they began hauling their own loads of cement bags toward the side gate. “They’ll want them carried to the back, where they’re pouring a new patio.”

“But I need to talk to you,” Malcolm protested.

“We can talk after,” Martin assured. “Help ‘em out, will you? I’d do it, but I can’t lift, remember?” He sent his son a certain _look,_ wondering if he’d happened to _forget_ that he had _stabbed_ _him_ two weeks ago.

Malcolm rolled his eyes, unable to argue. He reluctantly shuffled after the others with the cement bags in his arms.

As he walked away, Dr. Whitly called, “Oh, and… they might put you on _mixing duty_ as well.”

 _“What?”_ Malcolm whirled back --at least, as much as he was able to. _“Mixing duty?”_

“I told you to come casual,” Martin chuckled. “Have fun!”

* * *

Mixing duty was a pain in the ass. More accurately, a pain in the back.

Malcolm was combing a metal rake through a wheelbarrow of gloppy cement, coughing as the dust slowly settled from the last unceremoniously-poured bag. Tio poised a garden hose at the oversized mixing bowl, unintentionally appearing as if he were aiming a gun, about to put down a suffering animal. Whenever the cement apparently needed more moisture, he squeezed the trigger. He was not very careful about how he sprayed that hose, and therefore, the dust that had caked over Malcolm’s clothes quickly saturated; thickening into grey splotches of mud and embedding into the fine fibers.

The profiler’s nice button-up shirt and pressed slacks were ruined in ten seconds flat. His silk neck tie was stiff with a thin layer of mortar --nearly fossilized-- and his shoes were no longer as black nor as sleek as his sedan. His large gold watch did not glint in the morning sunlight anymore. The consultant doubted it would continue to tell time after what it endured today.

Once Malcolm mixed a batch, Rico, Tio, and Hijo assisted him in the pouring, then went to work spreading the cement evenly inside the patio frame as the profiler mixed the next batch. He feared it would take them all day to finish the job. He kept looking up and around for his father --both for an excuse to get out of mixing duty _and_ to check up on his whereabouts-- but Martin did not join them in the backyard. When Malcolm asked about him, the men seemed to brush away his questions. They ordered him to keep mixing.

Midway through churning a second batch of concrete, Malcolm decided to man up and commit to the chore. The sooner he finished this, the sooner he could go see what his father was up to in the garage. He wrestled his necktie off his collar, cast it aside, then removed his watch and handed it to Hijo, who was mesmerized by it. Malcolm nodded for him to keep it while unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves to expose his forearms. Then he grabbed the rake again and combed through the next batch of concrete like a professional, tackling the task as if he had something to prove. The others grew very excited by it, and cheered him on.

Now, _this_ was a work-out session.

By the time they finished their fifth batch, Malcolm was sopping with sweat. Lifting his wrist to wipe his brow (and inadvertently smudge a streak of concrete over his forehead,) he stepped back as the others poured the mixture into the frame. Hijo handed him a bottle of water. Malcolm finished it in one long chug.

The consultant flinched as he was startled by a shrill sound that echoed from the other side of the house. The sound lasted only a short duration, but intensified in pitch before calming, and then dying out. To him, it was comparable to a wretched scream, and he couldn’t think of it any differently. Alarm bells rang in his head, each one forged by his PTSD. Nobody else seemed concerned by the sound, and they mocked his jumpiness. Malcolm abandoned them to race around to the front of the house, his heels slamming down against grass and then pavement --until he halted at the entrance of the open garage.

He saw his father remove a piece of tile from beneath a tool that looked similar to a miter saw, except it was dripping wet and was equipped with a tray. The circular blade continued to lazily spin after being released, sending residual droplets of grey water into a rubber splash guard behind it.

It was not a person’s scream. It was only that of a machine. Malcolm sighed to catch his breath and tried to calm his palpitating heart, but he was not entirely put at ease.

“How’s the patio coming along?” Martin asked cheerfully, ignoring the expression of pure panic on his son’s face. He set the tile aside and placed another one under the blade in preparation to make another cut. “I see you ruined your _‘casual’_ clothes already.”

Malcolm took in the horrifying sight of all the tools hanging on the walls of the garage. Drills, hammers, pliers, hedge trimmers, a weed wacker, hacksaws, bow saws --even a _chainsaw,_ which dreadfully reminded the profiler of the serial killers of cult classic horror films. It was a smörgåsbord of weaponry, especially for someone who had been banned from touching a mere _pencil_ for more than twenty years --and for good reason.

Suddenly, Malcolm felt incredibly foolish for being so preoccupied with checking his father’s multi-tool. The man had access to a multitude of _truly_ formidable tools this entire time. Malcolm flinched again as his father activated the saw, making a smooth, controlled cut into the tile. Water ran down the blade, pooling in the tray below. Another screech of machinery pierced through the air, bouncing off the tool-covered walls. Both the sound and sight of his father handling such a powerful object affected Malcolm more than he would have cared to admit. 

When the brief maneuver was finished and the contraption was silent again, Malcolm hissed, “They put you on _saw_ duty!? _Seriously!?”_

“Seriously,” Martin grinned, evidently thrilled by the forbidden privilege. Again, he set the piece of tile aside and grabbed another one. But before he could sacrifice it upon his beloved altar, Malcolm snapped, _“Stop!”_ and hurried over.

As the profiler ushered him away from the saw, Dr. Whitly asked with an innocent tone, “Well, what _else_ am I supposed to do, Malcolm? I can’t carry around bags of cement all day. I’ll tear open my sutures.” His tone was calm, intending to console his flustered son while also defending his new career.

Malcolm remained between him and the tile saw with his arms spread out. His hands were trembling like leaves being jostled in an earthquake. When it was clear that his father wasn't going to continue using the tool, Malcolm took a steadying breath and held his face in his hands. Everything inside of him tingled with the feeling --the _knowledge--_ that this was _not_ okay. That this was not _good,_ and could never be good, no matter how much his father assured him that it was. The voice in the back of his head told him that he needed to get The Surgeon out of this garage and back into a cell, _now,_ or else. Because sooner or later, Malcolm was going to regret giving him a second chance.

“I’m doing something that I enjoy, son. Something I’m good at,” Martin gently advocated. “I’m making _art_ again.”

Malcolm was not soothed in the least. He pulled his face out of his hands to fire a bewildered look at the man. _“Art?”_

“Yes. Come look, I’ll show you,” Martin offered softly. He pointed to the door that led into the house, inviting the boy inside.

The profiler was almost _afraid_ to follow him. He was afraid to be shown whatever it was he was about to be shown, lest it confirm his deepest fears. But he followed his father inside the house anyway, moving cautiously, as if he were about to stumble upon a terrible crime scene. It was ironic, because he usually charged so confidently into crime scenes. Both taped-off ones, and fresh ones. He even caused quite a few himself, often _due_ to his confident charging.

His father led the way into the foyer and stopped. Malcolm came to stand beside him and followed his gaze down to the floor. In front of them, in the center of the foyer, was the most beautiful mosaic he’d ever seen.

Its design was that of a sun. Symmetrical rays billowed out from the core like curved flames. Dual tones of granite created the illusion of a third dimension within the flat image. A glass ring framed the design in a pattern that appeared to be woven --though the small shards were simply offset in a carefully-calculated, tightly-knit diagonal. The details around the edge of the medallion reminded Malcolm of the ticks and arrows of a compass or a clock. The mosaic was embedded right into the heart of the house; a glorious centerpiece to the renovation.

Malcolm gawked at it.

“You made this?”

The profiler carefully walked around to the other side of the foyer, circling the medallion like a predator --his eyes locked onto it.

“I did.” Dr. Whitly glanced between the mosaic and the habitual critic. He was perhaps slightly on edge, only because he was desperate for some kind of approval from his son.

The consultant scoured every detail. He lowered himself to a crouch and tenderly touched the edge of the masterpiece his father had created, checking that each tile was laid evenly. There wasn’t a single flaw to be found, even while examining the design closely, and from all angles.

“This… this is _amazing,_ dad.” He looked up at the man standing across the foyer. “You did a great job.”

A timid yet uncontainable smile spread across Dr. Whitly’s face --like that compliment truly meant something to him. He struggled to keep his focus on his son’s astonished gaze. “Oh. Well, I’m glad you think so, son,” he murmured.

After a short moment, Malcolm looked back down at the medallion. He remained crouching beside it as if he were intimately examining a chalk outline --except, this time, he was examining something much, much better.

His father happily sighed and gestured down the hall. “All that’s left to do is the tile and backsplash in the kitchen. I estimated that I could finish it by the end of the week, but now that _you’re_ here, it should only take the two of us a day to complete.”

Malcolm looked up again, repeating, “The two of us?”

“Wull, yes,” Dr. Whitly grinned. His expression wavered with a measure of nervousness as he added, “Unless… you prefer mixing duty.”

For the smallest fraction of a second, Malcolm hesitated. Perhaps he even considered the offer. But he had to stay focused. Rising to his feet, the profiler took a long breath and then delivered a polite, professional, and phlegmatic response. “I came here to speak with you.” He tried not to think about Gil’s nightmares as he finished, “Not to work with you.” 

Dr. Whitly tried not to appear too disappointed. He knew it would have been foolish of himself to expect anything different. “Right. Of course.” He forced a smile and nodded, accepting the consultant’s answer.

Malcolm extended his hand to gesture to the garage, prompting Dr. Whitly to lead the way outside. The profiler was not keen on turning his back to his father, nor allowing the man to walk behind him, for obvious reasons. Dr. Whitly went ahead of him as he was asked to do.

* * *

“Your coworkers,” Malcolm mentioned, murmuring under his breath as they walked toward his car. The two of them strode side by side with their hands in their pockets. “They’re immigrants. That’s what you meant when you said they’d be uncomfortable with--”

“Yes,” Dr. Whitly affirmed. “Illegals.”

Malcolm couldn’t care less about the status of their green card. Living in the country illegally was a frivolous dark secret --perhaps even an innocent one-- in comparison to the wild and sinister secrets he had fabricated in his head on the way over. It was a great relief to him that they weren’t something worse.

“Do they know who you are?”

Dr. Whitly scrunched his nose and shook his head. “I think they get the idea I’m a wanted man, but... they don’t know what I’m wanted _for.”_

As Malcolm circled around to the driver’s side of the car, Dr. Whitly opened the passenger door and announced with a humored grin, “They call me _Martín.”_ The second syllable sounded like _‘teen.’_ It was a silly embellishment to his name, and he liked it. “How fun is that?” He lifted his brows excitedly.

With the driver’s side door open, Malcolm froze. “They know your real name?”

“No,” his father chuckled, still grinning. “They just know me as _Martín.”_ Again, he played with the silly sound of the new nickname. It was very entertaining to him-- as was the look of shock on his son’s face. With a devious smirk, The Surgeon slipped into the car and shut the door behind him.

Malcolm rolled his eyes and held back a frustrated sigh before joining him inside the sedan. “What if they find out who you are?” he scolded, settling in his seat.

Dr. Whitly wasn't worried. “They won’t. And if they did, I _highly_ doubt they’d do anything about it.” He curiously watched as Malcolm reached behind the driver’s seat to fetch a bulky, metallic, James Bond-looking briefcase. Meanwhile, Dr. Whitly continued rambling pleasantly, “They're already in too deep with me. Plus, I do good tile.”

The profiler didn’t appreciate his father’s carelessness with his first name. One might say Malcolm was being _overprotective,_ and truth be told, he was. He was being overprotective of the murder case. There was simply too much at stake with it, and he didn’t need it slipping through his fingers because his father let a few things leak out.

“What’cha got there, son?”

As the profiler opened the briefcase in his lap --and then opened the laptop inside of it-- he gave his father a spiteful silent treatment. Martin didn’t like being ignored, and his smile wavered. Looking over his son’s cold shoulder at the computer screen, he shamelessly spied on what the boy was up to. He was clacking away at some digital code in a NYPD program that Dr. Whitly couldn’t make heads or tails of. It made him uneasy, and after a moment he gave up trying to decipher it.

“Tell me about that dinner party,” he prompted. “Did you find out who my victim is?”

Malcolm didn't like how he worded that question. Disregarding the twinge of discomfort it gave him, he answered plainly, “I did.”

“Fantastic!” Dr. Whitly beamed, appearing as if he was eager to hear some juicy inside gossip from his BFF. _“Soooo,_ who is it?”

“You don't need to know,” Malcolm muttered. He remained focused on the computer screen between checking a few other small accessories in the briefcase.

“Oh, come on,” Martin chuckled. His brilliant smile radiated with friendliness and trustworthiness, so much so that it would have certainly convinced anybody else. “It’s not like I’m going to hunt them _down.”_

Malcolm resisted dragging a _look_ up at his father. There was no way that he was going to tell Dr. Whitly about Judge Van de Kamp. The profiler had to be careful. He had to remain in control. They were _not_ a team, they were _not_ on the same side, and his father was _not_ his ally, no matter how much Dr. Whitly claimed such things. This was _not_ a bonding activity. This was not a _game._ This was life or death, and Malcolm couldn't afford to make a mistake.

“It doesn’t _matter_ who they are,” the profiler reminded him, his tone pointed. “What _matters_ is saving their life, remember?”

Martin hesitated, then yielded, “Sure. Of course, yes.”

This time, Malcolm did give the man a _look,_ and it was because he could hear the annoyance and disappointment under his falsely-pleasant tone.

His father gave him a truthful expression that was somewhere in the realm of a pout, then explained, “To be _entirely_ honest with you, my interests lie more in freeing myself from my obligation to Sterling than saving some... ‘ _stranger’s’_ life.”

Malcolm knew it would have been foolish of himself to expect anything different, and he _hadn’t_ expected anything different. But the profiler’s look didn’t diminish. His father was implying that if the victim _wasn’t_ a stranger to him --if he _knew_ them-- then he’d be less inclined to go through with the deed of killing them. Malcolm knew that wasn't true. It was just an angle Martin was using to try to get more information from him. It wasn't going to work. 

Dr. Whitly gave up on his fishing attempt and lightly tossed his hands up. “Fine. Don’t tell me.” With a childish petulance, he cast his defeated gaze out the windows and grumbled, “It’s not like I won’t find out.”

Malcolm couldn’t help but smirk at the man, humored by his mild attitude. Then, with his own tone of false sweetness, the consultant tilted his head and asked, “Could you have just a _little_ more compassion for strangers’ lives?” His smile was so fake, it was nearly plastic. “Can you find just a _crumb_ of decency, somewhere deep down inside your cold, dark heart?” he exaggerated theatrically.

Dr. Whitly flashed the boy a brief side glare, then appeared to ignore him. But Malcolm could tell he was thinking about his words, and was helpless to resist indulging in his son’s rare playfulness. Martin eventually made a deeply-thinking face and then shook his head. “I’m _really_ trying, but I just _can’t,”_ he answered, playing along.

Malcolm chuckled, his handsome features warping with his laughter.

Having been successfully cheered-up, Dr. Whitly smirked over at the boy, admiring his lighthearted expression. Then, Martin assured, “But I will keep working on it.” The tone of his voice was more sober now, as if he was no longer joking around.

Malcolm worked hard to disregard how those words landed upon his heart, and he quickly turned back to his laptop. Clearing his throat, he muttered, “Good,” as if that sentence didn’t matter to him.

But it did.

It mattered to him almost as much as saving a stranger’s life.

Dr. Whitly’s smirk lingered for a few moments as his son busied himself with his technology again. The Surgeon glanced back at the house, checking that his coworkers were still busy in the backyard. Thinking back to his obligations, he murmured, “I do not enjoy having someone tugging at my leash,” he scratched his thumb through his beard absent-mindedly. “It’s _uncomfortable,”_ the man drawled. “I’d like to take my collar off.”

“Well, in order to do that, we need to find out the details about _how_ Sterling wants you to commit the murder,” Malcolm answered distractedly, pressing one last key on the laptop. The screen changed to display the vision of a camera --one that was aimed at his father beside him. Malcolm held up a tiny black bug between his fingers. “That’s why I need you to wear _this_ at your next meeting.”

Dr. Whitly bristled at the sight of it. _“What?_ A _wire?_ On _me?_ Malcolm, that’s--”

"Actually, it’s wireless.” Malcolm showed off the little black dot in his hand. Sure enough, there was no cord trailing from it. It was as small and compact as a medical pill. The screen on Malcolm's laptop spun with the bug’s movement, but a stabilizing effect was already applied to the footage. “Like the nano-tech spyware in the movies.”

Martin continued staring at it. “You’re kidding.” 

“I’m not.” Malcolm pointed to a green bar on the screen that bounced as he spoke. “It picks up audio, too.” 

He handed the bug to his father. Dr. Whitly gingerly accepted the tiny device in his hands and warily fiddled with it. He glanced over to watch the laptop screen as he practiced aiming it around the car.

“It can last up to four hours. It’s waterproof. It streams _and_ records data directly to this laptop. It even has a location tracker,” the profiler explained. The technology was certainly fit for Hollywood.

Dr. Whitly was still hesitant. “Where would I…?”

“On your shirt,” Malcolm answered. “A button, probably. It can also go on glasses, hats, tie clips, cuff links. Anything, really.” The consultant reached over to him. “Here, let me.”

Dr. Whitly sat stiff and rigid as Malcolm attached the bug onto a button towards the top of his plaid shirt, just below his clavicle. As the profiler secured it to his clothing, Martin asked, “Will it set off any... detectors, or wands, or…?”

Malcolm scoffed, “You’re not meeting at the _airport,_ are you?” 

“No, but--”

“Then you’ll be fine,” Malcolm assured him, leaning away to inspect the placement of the camera and judge the camouflage of the micro-device. It blended right in with the other dark buttons on his father’s shirt. “Looks great,” he announced.

Dr. Whitly didn’t feel great. He felt like a cat that was frozen in place with some foreign article of clothing stuck on him, afraid to move an inch. “They’re gonna _see_ it,” he whined in exasperation.

“No they’re not,'' Malcolm tilted down the rear-view mirror to show the man the upgraded button on his chest. “Look. It's perfect.”

Dr. Whitly eyed his attire suspiciously.

“People use stuff like this all the time,” Malcolm eased. “It’s foolproof. Just... don't be a fool.”

His father glared at him in response.

The profiler sighed. “Dad, I _need_ you to do this,” he begged. “I need more information. Information that does not rely on _your_ word alone. I need _evidence._ Concrete, physical evidence.”

“For your case?” Martin grumbled.

“For my case,” Malcolm nodded.

“The case that _I_ am a part of,” Martin reminded bitterly. “The _‘Escaped Surgeon’_ case.”

Malcolm corrected him, “The _‘Sterling is Planning on Killing Someone’_ case.”

Martin was not convinced that he was out of the woods. He grew slightly agitated. “This is self-incriminating, Malcolm."

“You’re right,” Malcolm answered. “It is.” He elaborated, “It’s self-incriminating for _me,_ dad.”

Dr. Whitly calmed down, and listened.

Malcolm gestured at the computer in his lap. “Do you really think I’d hand over this footage to the cops? What would I say; that I stole their most expensive piece of equipment and gave it to you?”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his father’s lips. “You _stole_ it?”

Malcolm waved away the expression of pride that was blossoming on the man’s face. “I borrowed it. They won’t even notice it’s gone.”

Martin grinned all the same. “My boy,” he murmured fondly.

“This is just for us. So we can come up with a plan. Okay?”

Dr. Whitly nodded.

“So will you wear it?” Malcolm asked, hopeful.

Martin hesitated. He gazed at the laptop, which showed his vision of Malcolm, the sedan’s dashboard, and the street outside the windshield. He took a long breath, then finally hummed, “I don't know, son. If Sterling finds out--”

“He won’t. Not unless you act all funny.”

Now, _Dr. Whitly_ was the one who didn’t appreciate his companion’s apparent carelessness. This was a serious risk they were taking, and one wrong move could send their entire Jenga tower tumbling down. “If he _does_ find out, we are _done for.”_

“He’s not going to find out,” Malcolm promised. This was an argument he was too stubborn to lose.

The trouble was, they were _both_ stubborn.

“How about this?” Malcolm offered. “Wear it for the rest of the work day, see how that goes, then you can decide. Alright?”

Dr. Whitly thought about that proposition, and eventually agreed, “Okay.”

“Great.” Malcolm nodded and politely hid the triumph in his smile. He was certain that once his father grew accustomed to wearing the bug, he’d forget he even had it on, and then he’d agree to wear it at the meeting. The profiler closed the laptop and briefcase, tucking the surveillance equipment away. “Besides, it might be fun,” he advocated. “When else are you ever going to have the chance to do this?”

Dr. Whitly resisted the urge to touch the special button on his chest. “I guess it is _kinda_ fun,” he reluctantly admitted, toying with the idea in his head. He supposed he could think of it as having a little friend with him --one that was eager to hear everything he heard, and see everything he saw. In a way, he was carrying a little piece of _Malcolm_ with him. The new perspective caused him to sit up straighter, as if he wore a valued badge.

Malcolm took note of his father’s changed demeanor with a smile, glad to see he was already embracing the new experience. The consultant sighed. “Alright. So….” He glanced at the house, then gave his father a tiny smile. “Show me how to do tile.”

Dr. Whitly’s face shone with surprise. He grinned at his son, then eagerly got out of the car.

Malcolm’s smile brightened before he quelled it, and he got out of the car as well.

He couldn’t leave with the expensive camera with his father, and he figured that since he was going to be here for the next few hours anyway, he may as well embrace the new experience. Besides, it might be fun. When else was he ever going to have the chance to do this with his dad?


	7. Chapter 7

It had not been a fun day.

Malcolm would have preferred to get out of school early for a reason  _ other _ than being sick. In his bedroom, the seven-year-old’s drooping eyes studied the far wall as he lay in his bed and waited for his father to come home. Louisa had assured him that the man would be there any minute. Sure enough, his dad soon entered the bedroom, wearing his long white lab coat that had his full name embroidered on it in blue thread.

“My boy, what’s wrong?”

“I threw up,” Malcolm rasped.

“Oh, that’s no fun.” Dr. Whitly calmly took his place on the edge of his son’s bed and reached forward to place his palm on the child’s forehead, his hand resting beneath the overhanging wisps of Malcolm’s stringy brown hair. Dr. Whitly turned his hand over to rest the back of it against his son’s skin as he studied the heat coming from his temporal artery. “What color was it?”

“Throw-up color,” the boy muttered in a mildly-snarky response.

Dr. Whitly touched the child’s neck, which was also feverishly warm. “Was it brown, or yellow, or green?” he listed, emphasizing each word as if they all were very exciting options. “Was there any blood?”

“No,” Malcolm answered, blinking slowly. “It was... brown, I guess.” 

His father politely asked Louisa to grab a wet washcloth and a glass of water, and then he slipped his hands under the boy’s armpits to help him sit upright. “Arms up.”

Malcolm did as he was told, though he felt much too hot to reach for the ceiling. His father pulled his sweaty T-shirt up over his head to remove it. With his hair sticking up from the static of his discarded dinosaur shirt, Malcolm dropped his skinny little arms to his sides and lethargically asked, “Why did you come home?”

Dr. Whitly fondly balled the dinosaur shirt in his hands and laughed like that was a silly question. “Because you needed me.” Louisa returned with the items he’d requested. Dr. Whitly thanked the housekeeper as he made an exchange with her. She left to place the dinosaur shirt in the laundry.

“What about your patients?” Malcolm asked. His voice was equal parts tired, concerned, and curious.

Martin smiled and dipped his head to give his son a deep look,  _ “You _ are my number one patient.”

The boy processed those words, and sleepily smiled. His father would always take care of him first.

He closed his eyes as the cold, wet washcloth passed over his heated forehead. Then his neck. Then his collar, chest, shoulders, and back. The cool, damp cloth worked miracles to cure his fever, and his skin no longer felt like it was burning. He was instructed to take a sip of water, and then he was eased back down upon his pillow.

“We’re going to have you try to eat something in a couple hours, alright? For now, you need to rest.”

“Will I be better for school tomorrow?” Malcolm fretted, his brow furrowing. The washcloth was folded and laid upon it.

“Probably not,” his father answered with a sympathetic wince. “I think you have the flu, sweetheart.”

The boy lamented in a series of panicked whines. “No, I  _ can’t _ have the flu! I have to go to school tomorrow! There’s a test!”

“I’m sure you can take it another time, son.” Dr. Whitly adjusted the bedding around the child as if he was reinforcing the nest of an adventurous baby bird who was bound to leap out of it.

Malcolm vehemently protested, “I  _ can’t! _ It’s the big one, Dad. The whole school is taking it. I  _ have _ to go tomorrow! I  _ have _ to take that test!”

“Shh, shh shh, listen,” Martin gently hushed. “Worrying about it is just going to impede your body’s healing process.”

Malcolm continued to worry anyway, and so Dr. Whitly asked, “What is the worst thing that could happen, son?” It was a legitimate question, like that of a quiz.

Malcolm answered, “I could fail.”

“No,” Dr. Whitly murmured warmly. “The worst thing that can happen is you getting even  _ more _ sick. And that's what’s going to happen if you go back to school when you’re not all better yet.”

Malcolm pouted.

“But if you get enough rest, and if you stay in bed today, and if you stop your worrying, then you might feel better enough to take your test tomorrow. Alright?”

Malcolm nodded, trusting his father’s expert advice.

Dr. Whitly smoothed the child’s hair away from his face and ensured the washcloth was snugly over his forehead. “Try to go to sleep. Okay?”

“Okay,” Malcolm mumbled. But his eyes didn’t close yet. “Are you gonna go back to work?”

“No, son. I am staying right here by your side.”

Malcolm calmed further, and his eyes almost closed.

Dr. Whitly rested his hand atop the boy’s head and whispered, “Now go to sleep.” The gentle weight of his touch encouraged the cogs in Malcolm’s brain to slow their spinning, and the child’s eyelids finally slid shut.

But he still rasped a quiet, “Dad?”

“Yes, son?”

“Thank you.”

Martin smiled softly. “You are very welcome, my boy.”

Dr. Whitly sat with him for a few minutes, methodically running his thumb over the child’s hair and watching an expression of near-deathly peace settle upon his face. The man gazed at it as if it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. After a while, he placed another butterfly-light touch on his son’s neck, noting the change in temperature of his skin. A blanket was lightly draped over the seven-year-old’s chest as it steadily expanded and contracted. Then Martin left his side without a sound. He closed the bedroom door in the same manner.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” he suggested to Louisa in the foyer. “I can take care of things from here.”

“Oh, Dr. Whitly, I was just about to start--” she gestured towards the laundry room.

“I can take care of it,’ he repeated kindly. “Besides, I have a few chores of my own to attend to.”

“Are you sure? What about--?”

“I’m sure,” he chuckled, fingering through his wallet to pay her the full day’s wages, plus a couple hundred dollar bills extra. “How about you go have a spa day at Vermella’s? Hm? My treat.”

The housekeeper hesitated to accept the cash. She could see in his eyes --behind his twinkling smile-- that he simply wanted to be left alone. Louisa assumed it was because he wanted to spend his rare day off getting some rest, like his son, so she smiled back. It was one of those youthful, naive smiles --one that bore no suspicion. Only innocence. “That’s very kind of you, Doctor. Thank you!”

They bid each other farewell at the door. The housekeeper was already thinking about the manicure she’d get, and a well-deserved massage, and perhaps even a new hairdo. She couldn’t wait to fawn about the experience with Mrs. Whitly tomorrow, and she felt entirely comfortable leaving Dr. Whitly to take care of things at the house. She and her employer had made another tiny, harmless trade, like the washcloth for the T-shirt. This time, their transaction had been a rare day off, to rest, in exchange for a rare day off, to rest.

But Dr. Whitly did not rest. He went back to work.

In the basement.

A surgical gown was later tossed into the laundry with the dinosaur T-shirt. The two articles of clothing tumbled around each other as red blood mixed with blue detergent. Before long, the crimson stains were entirely washed away --as if they were never there.

* * *

Malcolm took the measurements for the kitchen tile and backsplash, calculating the geometric space with a quick few extensions of a roll of measuring tape, a few scribbles of a pencil, and a few marks on the tile they would use. Dr. Whitly checked his math as if it were homework, gently questioning his thought process and lightly praising him for his accuracy.

Then Dr. Whitly motioned to the saw and requested the profiler’s permission to use it. “May I proceed?” His tone was somewhat playful, but it was also serious. He was checking that Malcolm was okay with it, and wasn't going to freak out again.

Malcolm shook his head with a half shrug, but gestured forward. He didn’t exactly have another option. Dr. Whitly was the one who knew how to operate it.

As if reading his mind, Dr. Whitly offered, “Or,  _ you _ could have a go at it.”

Malcolm began to form an excuse. “I don’t--”

“Come on, try it.” Dr. Whitly stepped back, inviting the consultant to step up to the blade.

With some reluctance, Malcolm did.

His father showed him how to use the tool, explaining what each part did. He taught him what to do, and what not to do, and then instructed him through his first cut. It wasn’t perfect, but Malcolm soon got the hang of it. The two men fell into a symbiotic rhythm of double-checking measurements, cutting tiles, handing them off to each other, and then meticulously placing them in the kitchen. It was a system that was fast and efficient and well-communicated. 

Now that Malcolm was familiar with the blade and knew what it could do and how it felt under his own hands, he had no qualms about allowing his father to make the more difficult cuts. The mechanical scream of the saw did not raise the profiler’s blood pressure, and he felt no fear tickling at the back of his neck as he watched Dr. Whitly perform the careful maneuvers.

When they finished --well ahead of schedule-- they admired the kitchen’s renovated backsplash and flooring.

“Good work, son.”

Malcolm felt a strange swelling in his heart.

They cleaned up the garage and then went out to help the others finish the patio. Malcolm found that he actually enjoyed getting his hands dirty, and enjoyed working with the small band of ‘criminals.’ It was ironic, and he found himself shaking his head --with a smile-- multiple times that day. He found that Rico and his family were hard workers and good people, even if they were rough around the edges.

During the lunch break, Rico tossed Malcolm a can of soda and Hijo gave him a small bag of chips. The five of them lounged on a lumber pile as the concrete of the new patio settled, conversing as best they could despite their language barriers. Dr. Whitly knew a handful of Spanish and made an effort to maintain a conversation between them all.  Malcolm stayed silent for the majority of the discussion, but he smiled and nodded when it was due. He chuckled when Tio began describing a time where he’d accidentally sent a nail through the webbing of his thumb. Rico seemed to grumble that Tio was never careful with a nail gun, and Hijo vouched for that by showing a scar on his arm and pointing at his uncle in blame. The group collectively laughed during the proceeding reenactment of the occasion.

At the end of the day, they all crowded around Tio and his garden hose, cleaning off their hands and forearms. A rag was passed between the Hispanic family, each taking turns wiping their faces, necks, and even dabbing under their arms with it. Understandably, Malcolm declined the rag when it was offered to him. They chuckled, and he realized the gesture had only been a joke. Malcolm smirked and lightly rolled his eyes. Then he was handed a different rag, from a different person.

“This one’s clean,” his father smiled. “I promise.”

Malcolm took it from him and used it to wipe his hands and forearms dry. He ran it over his neck and lightly rubbed it over his face, cleaning the layer of dirt and sweat off him. Then he gave it back.

“You missed a spot,” his father informed him, looking at something above the profiler’s eyes. Dr. Whitly shot the rag with a burst from the garden hose and then lifted it to the young man’s head. “Here, let me get it for you.”

Malcolm let him.

The cool, wet cloth pressed against the profiler’s brow. His father’s other hand formed a visor above his eyes, protecting them from the water that trickled down from the rag. As Martin rubbed the smudge of cement off his forehead, Malcolm held still. This time, it wasn't out of fear.

When Dr. Whitly was done, he wiped the excess water from his son’s forehead and then looked at the mark on his cheek. Malcolm did not pull away as his father inspected it, then ran a corner of the wet cloth gently over it, cleaning the grime from the small wound, which was now no more than some raw skin. The stitches had done their job well.

“Keep taking your antibiotics,” his father instructed with a smile. “That scratch will be gone before you know it.”

The impromptu check-up was brief and simple, yet powerful enough to bring back the memory of his father once assuring him, _'You are my number one patient.'_

Perhaps the memory returned to the both of them.

Malcolm witnessed a wave of pride and sadness roll through his father’s expression. It was the look of someone seeing their child all grown up --of admiring their little boy's transformation into an adult man. It was a look of loss and a look of love, all balled up into one small twitch of his smile.

Malcolm desperately tried to keep his guard up over his heart, which was once so fortified. Now the shield that defended it was paper thin and transparent, rendering it utterly useless. His father’s doting smile penetrated right through it, and that paternal look landed like a fishhook in the profiler’s heart.

The moment was mercifully interrupted as Rico thrust his hand between them to give his employee a thin clump of cash.

“Sixty whole dollars,” Martin purred with a smirk, accepting the wages.

Rico walked away, counting out some more money to pay his family.

“That makes eighty nine total, in the wallet. I’m a  _ very _ rich man,” Dr. Whitly joked lightheartedly, holding the bills up to wave them in the air like they were golden tickets to fortune.

Malcolm did not laugh. He placed his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat, trying to recover from what had just transpired between them. He also felt slightly bad. Sixty dollars was pennies, to the consultant. It was  _ less _ than pennies compared to what his father used to make.

They both looked up as they realized Rico was calling for the profiler with grand sweeps of his entire arm.

“Oh, no you don’t need to pay me,” Malcolm spread his hands through the air and shook his head. “Really. I was just helping out. I don’t need--”

Dr. Whitly tipped his head over to the Latino. “Just let the man pay you.”

“I don’t need the money.” They certainly needed it much more than he did.

“It’s fine, son. Go on,” Martin murmured, advising, “Before you make him upset.”

Malcolm held back a sigh and reluctantly obeyed Rico’s incessant beckoning. He was already plotting how to get the man’s meager bills back to him somehow. As he approached the contractor, the profiler forced a grateful smile on his face and held out his hand to accept the money.

But after Malcolm’s fingers closed over the bills, Rico did not let go of them. He seemed to pull Malcolm in closer, attempting some to establish privacy between them. He murmured in Spanish to the consultant, asking phrases such as, “¿Qué mal es él? ¿Ha matado gente?” and “¿Es un asesino?”

Malcolm furrowed his freshly-cleaned brow and listened to the man’s rushed, hushed words. Rico did not react when Tio hovered closer, listening in on the one-sided conversation with his hawk eyes fixed on the profiler.

Malcolm glanced at the other gentleman, but Rico jerked their shared hold of the cash. It was clear he wanted the profiler to keep his attention on him. He continued asking. “¿Deberíamos tener cuidado? ¿Miedo?” His tone became slightly mocking. “¿No? ¿No sabes?”

Malcolm did not answer, and only steadily held his gaze, waiting.

Tio spoke up in a similarly hushed voice, though he seemed to be defending the consultant. “No puede entendernos, hermano. Déjalo.”

Rico let the boy have the money, reluctantly accepting that his attempt to have a private discussion with him had failed. Malcolm slowly folded the bills into his pocket and sent a sly look over his shoulder to see that his father was busy putting some tools away with Hijo.

The profiler turned back to Rico and spoke up --in near-fluent Spanish.

“Mi padre es un buen hombre,” Malcolm said, then added, “Cuando quiere ser.”

Tio and Rico’s eyes nearly popped out of their heads. They were delighted to learn that Malcolm not only understood them after all, but could speak to them in their own tongue. The profiler didn’t believe his little secret was that impressive or shocking. Few students made it through Harvard without learning at least one other language.

“Él estaba un doctor,” he explained. “Solía ayudar a la gente.”

Tio and Rico were very interested to hear that. “¿Un doctor?” One echoed. The other asked, “¿Pero no más?”

Malcolm hesitated, and then shrugged, “A veces.” 

He continued speaking with them, dispelling their worry and suspicions while advocating for his father’s good character. The brothers were quickly put at ease, and they seemed very happy after their brief discussion with the profiler. They promised to keep Malcolm’s bilingual secret under wraps and rejoined the others to load up the pickup truck. They jeered at and complimented Dr. Whitly with phrases he didn’t completely understand, save for the occasional  _ “Martín.”  _ They even clapped him on the back before they left.

As the pickup truck clunked and clattered away, Dr. Whitly gave Malcolm a humored look, scoffing, “What was that all about?”

Malcolm answered with an innocent shrug and got into his car.

Dr. Whitly gazed after his coworkers’ truck for a moment, thinking to himself, before he slipped into the sedan.

* * *

They reviewed the bug’s footage on the NYPD laptop, and although Malcolm tried to focus on analyzing the device’s playback quality and explaining how the process worked to Dr. Whitly, he couldn’t help but get distracted by what he saw.

He saw his father’s hands. He saw how they worked. How they calmly commanded that mechanical blade as it cut through the tile. How they placed each finished piece so delicately onto the wall behind the kitchen counter, ensuring that each edge was straight and lined up just perfectly with the others around it. Malcolm saw how precise and methodical his father’s hands were, in everything they did. He saw the thought and care that fueled every movement of those hands.

His father could build anything, and build it well. His father had the hands of a master craftsman. 

He also had the hands of a killer, Malcolm reminded himself. It was something he’d never had to remind himself before.

That was not all the profiler saw as he reviewed the footage --skimming through it with quick taps of the laptop keys. He saw himself, too. He saw himself shake his head and roll his eyes. He saw himself stare at his measurements with a look of scholarly concentration on his face. He saw himself learn how to cut tile and then he saw himself cutting more tile with the same smooth and confident maneuvers as his father. Later, he saw himself smile, smirk, grin, and even laugh. He saw himself glance at the wearer of the camera with the same smile, smirk, or grin stuck on his face. Malcolm hadn’t realized how much he’d smiled that day, but the truth of it was undeniable given the evidence the bug had documented.

He saw himself holding still as his father’s dexterous hands used a wet cloth to remove the cement from his forehead, and then clean the dirt from the wound on his cheek.

The profiler slammed his finger on the keyboard to stop the footage as if it was equivalent to going back in time and stopping that moment from ever happening.

If only.

Sighing, he asked, “So what do you think?” and turned to look at his father in the passenger seat.

“I think…” Martin drawled, coming up with an answer. “It’s a very fascinating little piece of technology.”

That was great and all, but what Malcolm really wanted to know was, “Will you wear it to the meeting?”

Dr. Whitly made a face, pursing his lips and biting the inside of his cheek.

Malcolm waited. His hopes were helium-filled balloons fastened onto an anchor.

Finally, Dr. Whitly agreed, “Alright, I will wear it to the meeting.”

Malcolm released a breath. Simultaneously, his hopes were severed from his anchor of dread, free to float skyward. He couldn’t help but smile, and he even felt a rush of excitement stir up from within his gut. “Good. Great.”

Then came an opportunity where he probably should have said ‘thank you,’ but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Not to The Surgeon. Not ever.

The consultant put away the bug and the NYPD briefcase and said, “Buckle up. I’ll drive you home.”

Martin did not reach for the seat belt. Instead, he reached for the door handle. “Actually, I’ll walk.”

“You’re not walking,” Malcolm argued.

“Last time you drove, you tried to kill us,” Dr. Whitly reminded him.

The profiler chuckled. With a tilt of his head and a raise of his brows, he assured “That’s not going to happen again.” Earnestly, he added, “I promise.”

Martin smirked at him and then buckled his seat belt.


	8. Chapter 8

Dr. Whitly fiddled with the touchscreen of the mini-computer embedded in the dashboard of the sedan. Its GPS and music-playing capabilities were much more advanced than he was accustomed to. He entertained himself by scouring the plethora of musical options available to them, seeking a classical FM or AM radio station. As Malcolm drove, the profiler reached over to show him the _satellite_ radio stations, as well as the various music streaming apps. While trying each of the innovations, Dr. Whitly commented on how fascinating they were. He also commented on how _terrible_ modern artists were --except for the newly-discovered Billie Eilish, whose songs he found he did quite enjoy. He was astonished when Malcolm told him the singer achieved stardom at only fourteen years old.

The pair soon arrived at the motel. As Dr. Whitly got out of the car, they exchanged their ‘goodnights.’ But just before he closed the passenger door, Dr. Whitly stopped. “Oh, I just realized something.”

“What?” Malcolm asked.

“I am… _utterly_ starving,” Dr. Whitly identified. “You must be starving, too. All you’ve eaten today is Doritos.”

Malcolm smirked and assured him, “I’ll grab something on the way home.”

His father was doubtful of that. The man gestured down the street. “You know, there’s a food truck just two blocks from here. Why don’t you grab something with me before you go?”

“I’m fine,” Malcolm declined politely.

“Alright,” Marin surrendered. “If you’re sure.” He flashed a teasing smile. “But I’m telling you, their food is to _die_ for.”

Malcolm didn’t laugh at the joke, and he didn’t change his mind.

Dr. Whitly gave up, ho-humming, “Well, I’ll just have to go alone, then. Have a good night, son.” With one last smile, he closed the passenger door. Then he flipped up his hood and sauntered away with his hands tucked in his pockets.

Malcolm watched his father trudge down the street, passing between the heavy shadows of the night and the frail beams of the streetlights in an alternating pattern. He was almost entirely camouflaged in the dark spots. With every reveal of his figure under the series of weak lights, he appeared further and further away.

The profiler’s gut stirred with a familiar bad feeling.

He unbuckled his seat belt.

Dr. Whitly turned at the sound of footsteps from behind, not surprised in the least to see his son jogging to catch up to him. “Had a change of heart, did you?”

“I’m just walking you there and back,” the boy muttered. He was going along with his father to keep an _eye on him,_ Malcolm told himself. Not out of concern for Dr. Whitly’s safety, but for others’. Definitely for others’.

“How chivalrous of you,” Martin smirked.

* * *

Just as was foretold, the nearest vendor on the street was only two blocks away. It was a run-down food truck advertising Mexican cuisine. There was only one item on the menu; tacos. Dr. Whitly assured the consultant that they were the best tacos on the face of the Earth, and that they would certainly _not_ upset his digestive system, despite what any sensible person would assume based on the dubious appearance of the truck. Malcolm hesitantly agreed to try what they had to offer, but before he could reach for his wallet, Dr. Whitly fished out his own day’s wages.

“No, dad, you’re not paying for this,” Malcolm protested, lifting an elbow to block his father from stepping forward while hurrying to unsheath his credit card.

“Yes, I am,” Dr. Whitly declared, reaching around him.

The cashier behind the window eyed them warily as they proceeded to bicker and extend two different methods of payment to him, unsure which to take. Just as he was about to accept the closest offering, it was pushed away by the other. That dance repeated a few times, until Dr. Whitly held Malcolm’s wrist down and wailed, “I insist!”

Malcolm thought this was downright ridiculous. Of all the things that could put them at odds against each other, he never thought this would be one of them. It was almost absurd enough to make him laugh.

“Let me buy you dinner,” Dr. Whitly pleaded, facing the profiler. “I _want_ to buy you dinner, son.”

Malcolm sighed in exasperation. “Why?”

“Because I _finally_ have the chance to do it,” Dr. Whitly answered. His words were molded by twenty years of longing. “Let me do it.” 

Beneath his tone, Malcolm could hear a plea along the lines of, _‘It’s the least I can do to make up for what I’ve taken from you. To make amends. To better myself.’_

The profiler gave in to the peace treaty that Dr. Whitly offered. He tucked his credit card back into his wallet then watched as his father happily spent a fair portion of his meager fortune on getting them a mediocre meal.

Dr. Whitly was very proud of the small deed he’d done, and handed the consultant his share of neatly-packaged tacos as if they were bundles of gold. “Besides, you do things for me,” he mentioned as they departed from the vendor.

“What do you mean?”

“I know you said something to Rico,” Dr. Whitly accurately guessed. “To make him like me.”

Malcolm objected, “I did no such thing,” and took a bite of his crunchy taco.

Dr. Whitly smiled at the boy and prompted, “What did you tell him?” before taking a bite of his own.

Malcolm finished his mouthful, sighed, and then admitted, “I told him you were a doctor.” But that wasn’t all. “And… a good person.”

This time, Dr. Whitly’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He stopped chewing, and mumbled, “You did?”

“I only did it because there’s too much at stake with the case,” Malcolm attested. “I can’t allow anything to go wrong, and therefore, I can’t allow Rico to develop any suspicions about you. The last thing we need is for him to turn you in.”

Dr. Whitly also finished his mouthful, and then identified with a proud grin, “You lied to him.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Malcolm corrected in a neutral tone. He looked over at his father. “You _are_ a good person.”

Dr. Whitly grew worried. Had his son hit his head too hard on that coffee table?

Malcolm finished, “When you want to be.”

Dr. Whitly studied him with a curious and maybe even hopeful suspense.

“And I _have_ noticed that --lately-- you _do_ want to be,” Malcolm conceded.

Dr. Whitly cautiously grinned, testifying, “I do.”

He could tell something else was coming. He could tell Malcolm was leading him through this obscure conversation to a destination only he knew. Dr. Whitly tentatively followed along, even though he knew he was being invited into a trap.

Like the pawn shop.

Malcolm stopped walking, turned to Dr. Whitly, and asked, “Is that because of me? Or because of Sterling?”

Dr. Whitly thought about that inquiry. He was in no rush to answer, and he was not panicked in the slightest. He stood comfortably in the pause of silence. His eyes roamed briefly as if he were surveying the invisible bars of a cage around him, glancing for any weaknesses or holes. Then he squinted at his supposed captor, prompting him with a knowing smirk, “What are you _really_ asking me, son?”

Malcolm hesitated. “If Sterling wasn't in the picture… if he wasn’t holding anything over your head… would you still…?” It was unexpectedly difficult for him to form his true question.

Would his father still refrain from committing murders if his obligation to Sterling was removed?

“Yes,” Dr. Whitly answered. “I would.”

The profiler listened to the conviction in his father’s voice. He _wanted_ to believe him. 

“Malcolm.” Dr. Whitly stepped forward with a soft, humored, and maybe even condescending smile --as if he were about to reassure his child that there were no monsters hiding under his bed. “Since my escape, everything I have done,” he grinned, adding, “and _not_ done… has been for _you.”_

Dr. Whitly shook his head, speaking solemnly. “Not for him.”

Malcolm stared at the man, soaking in his words. 

Were they true?

He didn't know.

There was no way to know, until Sterling _was_ out of the picture. Maybe that was one of the reasons why Malcolm was so desperate to foil Sterling's plan. Maybe it was the _biggest_ reason. Maybe it was even more important to the profiler than saving a stranger’s life or bringing justice to the killers of the other victims.

Once again, as if he could read his thoughts, Malcolm’s father smiled. “Remember what I said to you in the repair shop?”

Malcolm did remember. He’d never forget. That day had been one of the more traumatic ones in his life. He’d been so angry, hurt, and afraid that day --after finding his father not at all in the state he expected him to be. Not as a victim, but as a perpetrator. A monster. A terrible, daunting figure who had manipulated him and tricked him yet again. That day, The Surgeon had brought Malcolm’s world crumbling down all over again. He’d almost taken his hero and father figure away from him. Again.

But that wasn't true. Malcolm knew now that those things had not been his father’s doing; they had been Sterling’s. _Sterling_ had done those things. _Sterling_ had played him like a flute. _Sterling_ had almost taken his hero and father figure away from him, whereas Dr. Whitly had been the one to _save_ Gil.

Yes, that had been one of the worst days of Malcolm’s life, but he did remember what his father said that day.

_‘I did some very bad things, a very long time ago.’_

_‘But I am not going to do them again.’_

_‘I’m going to change.’_

_‘I’m going to be a better person. For you.’_

Dr. Whitly’s audible voice interrupted Malcolm’s echoing memories. “That was the truth, son.”

After exhaling a sigh, Malcolm reminded him, “It wasn't the whole truth.” Dr. Whitly hadn’t mentioned the details of his deal with The Devil. He hadn’t mentioned that he’d accepted the task of taking another life in exchange for a new life of his own.

“I didn't have time to tell you the whole truth, at that moment,” Dr. Whitly chuckled. The man went on to earnestly explain, “I got myself _stuck_ with Sterling, Malcolm. I did what I had to do and I said what I had to say in order to get out of that cell. In order to get this second chance with you. That was _always_ my end goal.”

Malcolm nodded, then made a face, tipped his head, and played The Devil’s advocate. “It’s a good deal for you, dad.” His father didn't have to pretend that he _wasn’t_ excited by it. He was allowed to admit it. Just a little.

After a moment, Martin did admit it. “It is,” he yielded carefully. “It’s a _very_ good deal.”

The tentative enthusiasm in his smile hurt Malcolm. Just a little.

But Dr. Whitly’s smile changed. It deepened with a dose of fondness. “But the deal I have with _you_ is _far_ superior,” he assured happily.

Malcolm’s hurt was eased, and again he remembered, _‘You are my number one patient.’_

Somehow, he was comforted by the thought --the hesitant _belief--_ that even though his father did enjoy ‘getting his hands dirty,’ he enjoyed having a bond with his son even more. Malcolm was comforted because he was starting to trust that his father believed this bond between them was worth rebuilding, and not worth breaking. He dared to begin to have some faith that his father _wasn't_ going to break it.

Again.

* * *

They continued walking down the street, back towards the motel. They began talking about something that was not related to work --something that was not centered around the topic of murder, or death, or deceit, or crime. Something _ordinary_ and even _trivial,_ like the fact that there was so little nutrition in lettuce, or the fact that Malcolm now liked onions, whereas when he was younger, he did not. They talked about their favorite meals that Louisa used to cook --the holiday dinners and the little desserts she was famous for. They talked about their old neighbors that had moved out and the new neighbors that had moved in. They talked about how terrible construction was on 5th avenue and they talked about the sweet shoppe they used to go to, which had gone out of business and transformed into a tattoo parlor. They talked about it all, and therefore, about _nothing_ at all.

It was really nice, Malcolm thought, to _talk_ with his father. Just talk --freely and openly and simply-- as if they were two completely normal people. No mind games. No distrust. No fear. No need to have any sort of guard raised. No voice in the back of his head analyzing everything his father did and said through a filter of suspicion. 

Side by side, Malcolm and Martin took their time talking as the night waned on; their strides synchronous and their footfalls identical. They continued walking even after they’d finished their tacos and thrown away the wrappers in whatever trash bin they passed by. They even passed the motel, and wandered a little further beyond, because they were both so caught up in their discussion.

Neither of them wanted it to end.

But it did end.

It ended when Dr. Whitly bristled like a dog that had caught a familiar, threatening scent on the wind. The pattern of their matching strides was interrupted as the doctor’s demeanor shifted from contented to defensive. Malcolm looked up to see what he saw.

A trio of men were ambling along the sidewalk ahead of them; fidgety, restless, and most definitely under the influence (or in withdrawal) of an illegal substance. They were plagued by twitches, itches, and erratic movements as if their bodies were not their own, but that of an invisible tormentor. Speed-ballers, Malcolm speculated. Perhaps devoted methamphetamine users as well. The profiler should have spotted them sooner, and to be honest, Dr. Whitly should have done the same, but they’d both been distracted by the good time they were having with each other.

The band of addicts became dangerously fixated on the father and son.

 _Great,_ Malcolm thought. He had been correct. This _was_ a great place to get mugged.

As the pair was confronted, Dr. Whitly donned a welcoming smile and warmly greeted their visitors with a polite, but far from naive, “Hello, gentlemen. Can I help you?” 

The junkies displayed nowhere near as much courteousness or intellect in their response. They spoke in a muddled language built of slurred words and vulgar slang. In some ways, they were more difficult to comprehend than Rico’s family. But one thing was clear; these people weren’t leaving empty-handed.

“You got any money?” one of them spat, scratching at the track marks on his inner elbow.

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” Dr. Whitly nicely declined.

 _“That one’s_ got money,” another one sneered, his bloodshot eyes pinned on Malcolm and his clothes. The dirt from the workday didn’t hide their expensive nature. “Jus’ _look_ at him.”

With cruel, cackling laughter, the third chimed in, “Yeah, pretty boy got some dough,” and stepped closer. “Give me your wallet, pretty boy.”

Before Malcolm could react, Dr. Whitly placed himself squarely in front of the consultant and lifted one hand to block the addict from moving any closer. “Back off,” he ordered, his voice having instantly changed from gentle to stern. “Or else.”

The junkie’s laughter wheezed through his yellowed, holey teeth. “Or else _what,_ bitch? Whatcha gonna do?”

“Oh, trust me, you _don’t_ want to find out,” Dr. Whitly advised with a dark, humored smirk. Something about his expression _yearned_ for the degenerate to go ahead and find out anyway.

Malcolm quickly pulled out his wallet and reached around his father to offer the addict his credit card. Money was the last thing he was worried about at the moment. His account would be locked and closed before any serious damage would be done to it. “Look, here, just take it and leave. Alright?” His voice was calm and kind, intent on finding a resolution they could all be happy with. He put a hand on his father’s shoulder and urged, “Come on, dad, let’s go.”

But the junkies were not satisfied, and they did not give them a way out. “I said give me your wallet, yo! Not your fucking plastic!”

As the trio of addicts closed in, the two Whitlys backed up. With one hand hovering behind him, Martin guided the profiler backwards until Malcolm's spine met against a brick wall. Now the trio could not surround them nor effectively flank them from the sides. There was only one way this collision was going to happen; head-on.

Malcolm’s mind whirled as he struggled to think of something to say to diffuse the situation, but it was not a situation that could be diffused with words. Dr. Whitly’s attention was locked onto the addict who was most upset. The doctor faced the addict, remaining vigilant, ready, and most importantly, firmly between the aggressor and his son.

Then it happened. A jab. Something sharp and quick. But Dr. Whitly was quicker. He parried the junkie’s hand away with a calm movement of his arm, employing a wax-on move that Mr. Miyagi would be very proud of. The burst of physical aggression sent the tension in the air skyrocketing.

“Woahwoahwoah! Let’s all just calm down!” Malcolm ordered. Nobody listened to him.

The druggie repositioned himself, restlessly bouncing on his heels and spouting unintelligible threats. His friends egged him on and backed him up, each one encouraging him to lunge across some invisible barrier --to cross a forbidden line between him and his targets. Dr. Whitly held that frontline like Stonewall Jackson.

Another jab, and Dr. Whitly knocked the man’s arm aside a second time. Wax-off. He then held up a pointed finger with a snicker and a grin. “You do that again, and you’re going to regret it.”

Three strikes...

The junkie didn’t heed the man’s warning. He flew in for another assault --this time, throwing his whole lanky body into it-- with no intention of darting back to a safe distance. Martin accepted his advance, grabbing him and using the man’s momentum to his advantage. The doctor pivoted and directed the man’s head right into the brick wall behind him. Malcolm flinched at the terrible _crack_ that resonated from the addict’s skull.

As the concussed man crumpled to the ground in a pile of disoriented limbs and groans, Dr. Whitly exhaled a satisfying breath and tilted his head with a shrug. “I did warn you,” he chided, watching the man crawl away.

A second addict shot toward him. A steel blade glinted in his hand.

Malcolm sprang forward and caught the assailant’s wrist, preventing him from striking with the knife. In their scuffle, the profiler caught a glimpse of the third junkie running in to join the fray with another sharp weapon poised in hand. His father quickly snatched the junkie before he could reach the grappling profiler.

Dr. Whitly hurled the man away from his son, forbidding him from interfering with Malcolm’s battle. With another glint of steel and a _click_ of his own Leatherman blade, Martin promptly challenged the third druggie in a terribly sinister and intimidating voice.

Malcolm focused on disarming the man he’d chosen to face, confident that the other wouldn't be _that_ stupid to engage _The Surgeon_ in a knife fight --not that the guy _knew_ he was The Surgeon.

Malcolm grabbed his opponent’s shirt and pulled it away from his back, up over his head, turning it into a cowl. Nearly ripping it entirely off the man’s shoulders, he tangled it around the druggie’s arms, used it to restrain them, then executed a few martial arts techniques to effectively cause great pain to his wrists, manipulating him into dropping the weapon. The addict howled and hurried to scramble free from the NYPD consultant, no longer interested in taking him on. The defeated man stumbled away while trying to uncover his head, tripping and falling into the street while doing so.

The profiler whirled around to see their last aggressor clash with his father, each man holding the other’s knife-wielding arm at bay. They were locked together like antlered bucks. When Dr. Whitly’s back clapped against the brick wall, the profiler was already running over to help. But Malcolm wasn’t fast enough.

The final junkie balled his empty hand into a fist and lashed out with an unexpected strike. A small but sickening _crunch_ resounded from Martin’s nose. He cried out and flinched away, but the blow only spurred his anger. He wrestled harder against the addict, determined to enact revenge. However, a powerful knee to his ribs immediately sent him doubling over, and his knife dropped to the sidewalk.

 _“HEY!!”_ Malcolm’s voice was so thunderous, it almost frightened himself.

Ignited, the consultant descended upon the druggie like a provoked hive of wasps. Using every combat maneuver he'd been trained to do, he fired calculated, controlled, and efficient blows into the man’s body, giving him bruises that he would be able to feel even through his next substance high. In short; Malcolm was a fucking _ninja,_ and he let the addict have it.

The profiler almost struggled to rein himself back as the guy scrambled away from him. Malcolm hadn’t realized he’d disarmed the druggie long ago. He caught his breath and watched as the trio of would-be muggers high-tailed it out of there, each one of them dizzy and disoriented and bleeding and sputtering more profanities.

Dr. Whitly groaned behind him, and Malcolm's fire of rage dispersed in an instant. He turned and rushed back to his father’s side as the man sat up against the wall, blinking the stars out of his eyes as a crimson flood ran down his lips and beard.

“You okay?’ the consultant asked, out of breath.

“Fine,” Martin answered. His blood-stained teeth were smiling. Grinning. Chuckling. The thrill of the fight had exhilarated him, and his pain did little to stifle it. “My _God,_ Malcolm. Where on _Earth_ did you learn those moves?”

“Guess,” Malcolm mumbled while glancing around to see if the commotion had attracted any attention. It hadn’t, yet. Still, they shouldn’t stick around here. 

“Ah. Gil,” Martin guessed, his intoxicated mood giving way to a bit of grumpiness. Blood bubbled from his nose, causing him to sniffle like he had a nasty cold. He tried to pinch it to stop the bleeding, also tenderly feeling the damaged cartilage.

The profiler corrected, “No, actually. The FBI, but good guess,” and reached forward to help his father stand up.

Martin accepted the help, wincing with an _“Agh,”_ as he stumbled to a stand. “Did they get you?” he asked, leaning on Malcolm for support.

“No.”

“Good.”

Dr. Whitly was a little unsteady, but as he stabilized himself on his own two feet, Malcolm removed his arm from around him. “Come on. Let’s get out of here,” the consultant encouraged.

Then Malcolm realized that his arm felt warm and wet. He looked down at it, noticing the fresh red stain on his dirty sleeve. At first, he wondered if he’d been cut by one of the addict’s blades, and simply hadn’t noticed it under the veil of adrenaline, but then he noticed a similar stain seeping through his father’s black windbreaker. “Dad…”

Dr. Whitly looked down and touched his side, under his left arm. The spot was damp. He opened his jacket to reveal an even larger ruby stain permeating through his plaid shirt.

“Oh,” the man murmured thoughtfully.

Malcolm stared at his father’s blood. It blossomed from the exact place where he’d stabbed him two weeks ago.

Martin took a deep, shaky breath. “That’s not good.”


	9. Chapter 9

_‘What if his heart fails again?’_

Malcolm was powerless to ignore the ghostly voice of The Junkyard Killer. It circulated through his head, causing his mind to churn violently as if caught in a whirlpool. Despite his spiraling thoughts, the profiler concentrated as he helped Dr. Whitly shed his jacket and shirt in the bathroom of the shitty motel room. The bloodied clothing was balled up and tossed aside.

“Shit,” the consultant whispered, taking in the sight of the reopened wound on his father’s ribs.

Dr. Whitly grabbed a towel from the shower rack and blotted it with a wince. “It’s just a mild dehiscence,” he muttered, staring at the bathroom mirror to inspect the surgical site between each firm dab. “It’s fairly common.”

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Malcolm asked.

Dr. Whitly drawled, “Well, even if I _did,_ it’s not exactly in the cards for me, is it?”

No, it wasn't. Malcolm knew that. He knew that very well. It was all he could think about, and it plagued him with worry. How could he get his father the medical attention he needed without turning him over to the cops? He couldn’t simply check him into an emergency room. The authorities would immediately swoop in like bloodthirsty vultures, determined to take whatever was left of the wanted man after he’d received care.

As far as any medical procedures went, they were on their own. It was a terrifying thought.

“What can I do?” Malcolm asked, anxious to help.

“You can grab the little mirror from that drawer,” Dr. Whitly answered, putting the towel down and commencing to scrub his hands with an overload of soap.

Malcolm did as he was told.

Dr. Whitly’s nose still dripped with blood, but he allowed it to collect in his beard, for now. He had far more pressing issues to dedicate his attention to. He dried his hands before gently prying open the raw skin over his ribs. “Hold the mirror so I can look at it,” he instructed.

Malcolm held the mirror close and angled it upward so Dr. Whitly could see it. The profiler also grabbed the bloodied towel and frequently blotted away the fluid that seeped out from the dehiscence.

Dr. Whitly studied his injury, holding his left arm up and out of the way while he felt around with his other hand, making pained faces as he carefully explored inside the laceration with his fingers. “It’s not _that_ deep,” he decided distractedly.

Malcolm was seeing the exact same thing his father was. He argued, “That’s deep, dad.”

“But the muscle... is still intact,” Dr. Whitly explained, taking careful breaths through his ruby-colored lips. “That’s the important part.” He continued feeling for where the broken and the unbroken stitches were. Malcolm grimaced as he watched, and continued dabbing up the blood that trickled down his flank.

“The sutures in the... _fascia_ are still... secure,” Dr. Whitly announced, holding back a hiss. He drew his bloody fingers out of the opening and exhaled a shaking breath. Cleaning his hands under running water again, he murmured, “It’s mostly the ones in the subcutaneous fat --and the dermis-- that broke.”

“That’s better than I expected,” he sighed, searching the bathroom for some pain medication --or even a basic first aid kit. There were none to be found. He turned to his son. “I need you to go grab a few things. Quickly. There’s a Rite-Aid on Wildbrooke and 20th East that has a good medical selection.”

The doctor listed off the items he needed, including a specific suture kit, needle drivers, a hemostat, some various dressings, antiseptic gel, wound cleaning solutions, and a bottle of extra-strength acetaminophen, to name a few. Malcolm swiftly took note of it all by typing it in his phone.

“That should be everything,” Dr. Whitly concluded, sniffling through his own blood as he held the towel to his side once again. He used his elbow to pin it there and then fashioned some nose plugs for himself out of toilet paper.

“What about antibiotics?” Malcolm asked. The wound was bound to get infected. This was not a sterile operating environment.

“The best way to get those is through a prescription, but I doubt any pharmacy will accept my signature. The antiseptic gel will do fine, for now,” Dr. Whitly waved for the profiler to go see to his errand, and hurry.

‘Fine,’ was not good enough for the consultant. He vowed to bring some of his own antibiotics tomorrow. He had plenty to spare. Malcolm ran off to get the supplies, driving like a maniac the entire way to the Rite-Aid and back. Once he returned to the motel, he laid out the supplies on the kitchen table just outside the bathroom door.

Dr. Whitly popped a handful of acetaminophen, drained a large glass of water, opened the suture kit, and picked out the right thread and size of needle. When the tiny curved talon was ready, he went back into the bathroom to begin working on himself as best he could with his left arm raised out of the way. It was an awkward process.

Malcolm rolled up his sleeves and thoroughly scrubbed his hands with an overload of soap like his father had done earlier. “Here, let me.” He dried his hands.

“It’s alright, son, I can do it.”

“No, you just keep your arm up,” Malcolm argued. He gave him the mirror. “And hold this so you can watch and make sure I’m doing it right.”

They assumed a better operating position; Dr. Whitly taking a seat on the lid of the toilet and Malcolm kneeling by his side.

“Start with a Surgeon’s Knot,” Dr. Whitly instructed, his voice distorted on account of his toilet paper nose plugs. They were already saturated with crimson. “Do you know how to do that?”

“I can learn,” Malcolm answered.

“Alright. Enter at the top of the opening. These first layers are going to be buried, so go in deep, at a ninety degree angle beneath the -- _OW--_ there you go, just like that. Now go through the other side-- _GAH--_ yep, and now pull the thread through. Wrap it around your driver twice, then grab it and pull it through the loop. Perfect. Tie that four more times.”

“Quit slouching,” Malcolm chided.

Dr. Whitly corrected his posture and exhaled a long sigh in preparation to take on a load of pain. He knew exactly what he was in for, and it was not going to be fun without local anesthesia. He prayed the acetaminophen would kick in quickly. “Now you’re going to do a vertical mattress suture. Have you done that before?”

“Is that where you go like this?” Malcolm asked, indicating a pattern with his instruments. 

“Nope.” Dr. Whitly proceeded to talk him through the process of performing a more complex operation. His direction and praise were punctuated with sharp, _“AGH_ ”s at each puncture of the needle. Malcolm hadn’t even finished with the first line of sutures when his father’s verbal reactions began to evolve into harsher expletives such as, _“FUCK!”_

Malcolm paused, hovering the needle outside of the wound. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“No,” Dr. Whitly growled through clenched teeth. “Keep going.”

Malcolm kept going, ignoring his father’s winces and hisses. The profiler’s unbreakable concentration was not disturbed by his emotions --including any sympathy or guilt. He had a job to do, and he was the _only_ one who could do it. It was crucial that he did his job correctly and thoroughly, no matter how much it hurt his patient.

 _“FUCKing_ hell--!”

“You can do this,” the profiler murmured with a furrowed brow, applying a certain amount of compassion in his voice. “Those pills will kick in soon.”

The acetaminophen did start to kick in. Either that, or Malcolm’s voice had a magically soothing quality to it. More likely, Dr. Whitly simply became too numbed by the wasp-like stings to feel them as sharply. He caught his breath and clenched his jaw whilst trying not to slouch, trying not to lean away, and trying not to flinch too grandly at each nip of the needle and pinch of the forceps.

While taking deep, careful breaths, Dr. Whitly reviewed his son’s work through the reflection of the mirror. He couldn’t help but get distracted by what he saw.

He saw his sons’ hands.

He saw how they worked. How they commanded the instruments with nimble fingers as he sewed through bleeding flesh. How they planted each stitch so confidently into the tissue, ensuring that the edges of the dermis were tugged together in a straight, perfect line. Dr. Whitly saw how precise and methodical his son’s hands were, in everything they did. He saw the thought, determination, and _fearlessness_ that fueled every movement of those hands.

He saw _his_ hands.

But Dr. Whitly didn’t say anything. He didn’t point out that Malcolm was not trembling. He didn’t comment on the similarities between their method and demeanor. He only watched, admired, and endured his son's work.

As the profiler finished a row of buried sutures, Dr. Whitly offered, “I can do it on my own from here.”

“It’ll be quicker if I do it,” Malcolm murmured. He began closing another layer of flesh, caught in the unstoppable momentum of his deep concentration.

Martin winced at another poke, but his voice remained gentle. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you _have_ to do it.”

“I know that.”

“So…” Dr. Whitly glanced at his son’s face. “Why _are_ you doing this?”

Malcolm focused on his work. “Because I want to.”

“Why do you want to?”

Malcolm thought about that.

Maybe it was because he felt somewhat responsible for this. This was the exact spot where he'd plunged that ceramic dagger into his father’s heart. Malcolm had done the deed with so much toxicity in his own heart that day. He’d _wanted_ to do it. Provoked or not, he’d _wanted_ to do it, in that moment, and remembering that hatred made him feel sick. It made him feel like a monster. It frightened him.

In a way, this was cathartic for him. Doing this --suturing up the wound he’d initially inflicted-- also healed himself from the murderous rage he’d been victim to that day. Malcolm found comfort knowing he _wasn't_ a monster, so long as he made an effort to repair what he had damaged.

He would _always_ strive to repair what he damaged.

But he didn’t tell his father any of that. Instead, he answered, “Because I enjoy sticking you with a needle. Over, and over, and over again.”

Martin snickered at his son’s joke. That’s what it was. A joke. Not the truth. The truth was something else, even if Malcolm wouldn’t admit it.

Suturing up his side was not essential in order for the consultant to solve his little murder mystery. It wasn't required of him at all. It was something different --something more. It was different from buying him a motel room. It was different from assuaging Rico’s suspicions. It was different from walking with him to the taco truck for the purpose of ‘keeping an eye on him.’ 

Or perhaps it wasn't different. Perhaps it was all the same. Perhaps it was all, daresay, kindness. Forbidden kindness.

After a moment of hesitation, Malcolm quietly added, “And because you’re my dad.”

There it was; the truth --or a portion of it. Dr. Whitly waited for the portion that was supposed to come next, but it didn’t come.

The consultant kept working. He avoided his father’s eyes like a student who did not want to be called on to speak in class.

“Why don’t you say it, Malcolm?” Dr. Whitly asked kindly. “The next part.”

_Say it._

Malcolm didn’t answer, and he didn’t say it.

Dr. Whitly tried again, this time with a peeking reveal of bitterness. “You said it to _John.”_

Malcolm glanced up at him, snapping, “That wasn’t--!” He quelled his spark of aggression, and muttered, “I said what I had to say, and did what I had to do, to find you. That’s all that was.” Then, he added with his own small dose of bitterness, “I’m sure _you_ can understand that.”

Dr. Whitly lowered his disappointed gaze back to the mirror in his hand. He tried to focus on feeling more sadness than anger, but it grew increasingly difficult with each provoking poke of the needle.

Malcolm adjusted the way he knelt on the bathroom title and proceeded to tie a few more stitches in his father’s wound. “Speaking of John…. Are you still in contact with him?” 

Martin seemed to fail to hear his question, perhaps too disheartened to care to answer. After a forlorn pause, he murmured, “No. I’m not,” and then gained a small dash of interest in the topic. “Why? What’s new with John?”

“He’s about to be let out of his cage,” Malcolm answered distractedly, tilting his head to get a better look at what he was doing. “Without any kind of leash whatsoever.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sterling told me that his probation officer is quote ‘not good with technology’ and ‘not as passionate about all this’ as I am.”

Martin stared at him, processing this news.

“His ankle monitor is going to be useless. He’s going to be free to go wherever he wants without any supervision or surveillance. And I’m fairly certain that Sterling has instructed him to stir up all kinds of trouble. For me,” Malcolm grumbled.

“Is that so?” his father mused, staring into the distance as if he could preemptively navigate through the treacherous terrain that lied ahead of them.

“Yeah. So… any idea what he might do first?” Malcolm asked.

Dr. Whitly snickered. “You’re asking me as if I can read his mind, son.”

“You two were close.”

 _“Yes,_ but that was before he tried to murder my _child,”_ Dr. Whitly grumbled. “It’s a real shame he survived that camping trip. Apparently, you have a _knack_ for non-lethal stabbings.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes.

“Maybe that can be your criminal alias,” Dr. Whitly suggested cheerfully. “The Non-Lethal _Stabber._ It’s certainly unique.”

“Shut up, dad.”

“There are worse monikers,” Dr. Whitly smiled, then flinched as Malcolm sent a particularly sharp poke of the needle into his side. “Ow!” he whined petulantly. But then he chuckled, “See, you’re good at it.”

Malcolm pulled the thread through --but he paused before making his next puncture. The consultant looked up. “You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

The profiler narrowed his eyes. “Why did John agree to send me to meet you at that repair shop?”

“He owed me a favor,” Martin innocently claimed. “I cashed in on it.”

Malcolm was offended to be told such a blatant lie. “You ‘cashed in on a favor?’ Twenty years after he tried to murder your kid? Twenty years after you left him up in that cabin to die?”

“I admit; I didn’t expect him to _accept_ it, Malcolm, but I figured it was worth a shot,” Dr. Whitly defended.

 _“‘Accept.’_ That’s an interesting word,” the profiler pointed out. The needle hovered over his father’s raw flesh in a vaguely threatening manner. “It almost sounds as if you made a _deal_ with him. Like the deal Sterling made with you.”

Dr. Whitly hesitated.

Malcolm inquired, “What was the deal you made with John?”

Dr. Whitly carefully answered, “If you _must_ know, son… I offered to…” he took a breath and closed his eyes briefly, knowing what was coming. _“Work_ with him, again.”

The profiler’s face drained of color.

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” Martin asked.

No. It wasn’t.

Dr. Whitly hurried to add, “But I didn’t _mean_ it, Malcolm. I was only saying what I--"

“What you had to say.” Malcolm spitefully finished. “Of course you were.” He continued suturing --much less carefully than before. “So, I’m the _only_ one who you tell the truth to? Am I really supposed to believe that?”

“You’re the one who I most _consistently_ tell the truth to,” Dr. Whitly corrected between winces.

Malcolm was pissed, and it showed in the roughness of his work.

Dr. Whitly grimaced through it, complaining, “And when I _do_ tell you the truth, even if it’s not something you want to hear, you’re _still_ mad at me, so it seems I just can’t win no matter what I do.”

The profiler growled, “Life’s not a game to _win,_ dad.”

“Malcolm, I did what I _had_ to do, for _you,”_ his father fervently asserted. “I always have, and I always will.”

The consultant’s building anger detonated. “That’s _bullshit!”_

Dr. Whitly looked stung by that, as if Malcolm had poked him again.

Malcolm tried to regain control of himself. “That’s _complete_ bullshit,” he repeated, this time more quietly, but with just as much anger quivering on the edge of his breath.

He focused on pulling and tying his thread. He wanted to be done with this, so he could go. He knew that he didn’t have to stay there, but he was too stubborn to leave the job half-finished, even if he was getting emotionally fired up. He was succumbing to the rage and pain which he’d bottled up inside --which he’d tried so hard to ignore-- but which seized his heart every time he looked at his father. Now, those emotions bled out of him, and he couldn’t staunch their flow.

“You keep saying that you love me, and that I’m the most important thing to you.”

His voice trembled.

His hands soon followed suit.

“But when John had me chained up on Christmas Eve... when Gil came to you for information... for _help….”_

He lowered his hands, no longer able to rely on the sutures as a distracting activity. His fingers were shaking too much to keep working.

“You gave up on me.”

The knowledge of his father’s faithlessness had been eating away at his heavily-guarded heart ever since he learned about it from Gil. It haunted him in every waking moment --much like the corpse of his younger self had haunted him when he previously believed that his father had brought him up to that cabin to kill him.

“So don’t you _dare_ say that you’ll do whatever you have to do for me, or that you always have or always will.” He grit his teeth and looked his father dead in the eyes. “Don't you _dare_ lie to me like that.”

That was one lie he would not tolerate or turn a blind eye to.

Now, Dr. Whitly looked as if Malcolm had plunged a dagger in his heart again. “Son, I had _no_ _idea_ you were still alive!”

“That doesn’t matter,” Malcolm exclaimed. “That _shouldn’t_ matter. I _was_ still alive. I _needed_ you, and you gave up on me.” He drilled his father’s failure into him.

“It wasn't my best moment,” Dr. Whitly admitted. “I was in a bad place, mentally. And I was physically ill. Being locked in solitary confinement does things to people, you know. Haven't you heard--?” He wisely ceased his rambling.

All his son heard were excuses.

“Malcolm, I am _so_ sorry,” Martin attempted.

“Our family could have _died,”_ the profiler hissed.

“I know, I--”

 _“I_ could have died!” Malcolm cried. “Do you know what he did to me?”

He didn’t wait for his father to answer. Professing on his knees, the consultant berated him, “I was chained to the floor like a _dog_ \--for _days!_ He beat me. He starved me. He _stabbed_ me, like I stabbed him, and there was nothing _\--nothing--_ I could do!”

Malcolm pulled up the edge of his shirt and showed him the scar of the injury. It was pink and youthful, but healed. Dr. Whitly appeared taken aback by the sight of it; mesmerized, horror-stuck, and completely unable to pull his eyes away --as if he saw the mark as a fresh wound, the way it’d looked when John had first gifted it to the profiler. “Malcolm--”

“And _no one_ was coming for me, because they had _no_ _goddamn_ _clue_ where I was! My team went all the way to the _cabin in the woods_ looking for me, but _I wasn't there!!_ I was in the cellar under our fucking _house!!”_ Malcolm belted. “All you had to say was there were tunnels under the house! That’s _all_ you had to say!”

“Malcolm, I--”

“I had to break my own _hand_ to get out of there!” the consultant screeched in fury. He was at his wits’ end with anger and pain and hysteria. It all came rocketing out of him, like he was a bottle of coke that a pack of Mentos had been dropped into. 

Dr. Whitly also grew heated. He yelled back, “I said _I’m sorry,_ Malcolm!!”

“BULLSHIT!” Malcolm screamed, rising up onto the caps of his knees to fire an accusation in his father’s lion-maned face. “YOU GAVE UP ON ME!”

With a glimpse of a snarl in his teeth, Dr. Whitly lunged for him.

Malcolm’s rage immediately gave way to fear, which immediately gave way to instinct.

In a split second, they were locked together. But it was not in the way that Dr. Whitly and the drug addict had been locked together. Martin had placed his hands to either side of the profiler’s head, sealing his ears and clasping his skull between his palms. His fingers slid into the consultant’s disheveled brown hair and his lips hovered closely against the skin of his forehead, seemingly about to either devour him or kiss him. Malcolm had grabbed his wrists, his nails ready to dig in deep and draw blood in self-defense. His struggle was so brief and futile, it was unworthy of even being deemed a struggle. He couldn’t move an inch, and he had no footing or leverage to pry himself out of his father’s grasp.

He also couldn’t hear a thing.

The murky silence was a drastic and sudden change from the yelling that had transpired just before. The vacancy of sound reminded him of being underwater, and it held the same nebulous quality. The profiler didn’t try to pull Dr. Whitly’s hands away. He relaxed, listening to the nothingness. Amid the deafness he’d been imprisoned in, Malcolm could hear his father urging, “Shhhhhh, shhhhhh,” with long, warm breaths that reverberated against his forehead. His hushes crashed in his mind like calm waves on the shore of a distant sea --one that had previously been turbulent with an uncontrollable storm.

Malcolm’s anger was drowned out by the noise-cancelling earmuffs of his father’s hands. His anger quelled into tears. He forced the tears to stay inside, behind his closed eyelids, forbidding himself from crumbling and looking weak in front of The Surgeon. In front of his dad.

After a moment, Malcolm placed his hands over his father’s, pressing them more firmly against his head --as if willing those strong palms to crush him. Rather, to keep him compressed into one piece, unable to fall apart. Like how one held a glued-together science project, until the adhesive dried.

Between his father’s hands, Malcolm calmed, took a few deep breaths, fought back a wave of tears, and eventually found himself somewhat healed.

When his emotions had settled, he took his hands away.

Martin gently did the same, allowing his son to hear the apology he murmured to him. “Listen to me.” His hands came to rest upon Malcolm’s shoulders, and the consultant suddenly felt as if he was seven years old again. “I am so, _so_ sorry, Malcolm. Truly, I am. If I could go back, I would have--”

“Don’t.” Malcolm removed his father’s hands from his shoulders, reclaiming his maturity. He ran his own wrists under his eyes to ensure no tears had leaked out of them. “I don't want you to apologize for what you did. It’s already done. I only want you to do _better,_ next time.”

He looked up at his father with the last reserves of his emotional strength. “Don’t give up on me again.”

Martin promised, “I won’t, son.”

“I mean it.”

“I do, too.”

“Good,” Malcolm murmured.

His gaze fell on his half-finished stitch work, still seeping with blood. “Now, quit slouching.”

They assumed the position again, and Malcolm commenced working as if his emotional outburst had never happened. He was eager to move on, and he was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that they’d had yet another moment together.

Dr. Whitly remained very quiet as he let Malcolm continue suturing his side. He did not wince or hiss or grumble or crack any more jokes. He just sat in silence, numbed by what he’d learned about that night when he thought his son had died.

Malcolm was the first to break the silence that stretched between them.

“Do you at least know… if he would try to go after the girls again?” He was worried about his family. _Their_ family. That was what he was most stressed about, concerning this dilemma. If Watkins hurt them, after _Malcolm_ had let him walk out of prison...

“Well,” Dr. Whitly rasped. He cleared his throat. “I assume... you’re going to have them placed under protective watch as soon as he’s out. He would assume the same, and he’s not going to run back into the cops’ hands. He may be stupid, but he’s not _that_ stupid.”

That calmed Malcolm slightly. He nodded.

“The tunnels are all sealed off, now, right?” Martin asked. “Jessie didn’t miss any, this time?”

“Yes,” Malcolm answered. “Completely.” He’d seen to the project himself. Their basement was as secure as Fort Knox.

“Good,” Martin murmured.

After a moment, the profiler sighed and mentioned, “That wasn’t the first time he broke into our house after you left.”

Martin looked at him. It was an almost expressionless look. Even. Controlled. Guarded.

“He visited Ainsley on occasion, when she was little. We thought she just had an imaginary friend.”

“Nobody else ever saw him?” Dr. Whitly squinted. “Louisa, or...?”

“No. He came at night.”

“Did he ever hurt her?” Martin asked --casually. A little too casually.

Malcolm shrugged. “Not that she remembers.” He didn’t know if the serial killer had even touched her. It chilled him to think about.

Maybe that was hypocritical.

Martin nodded, musing over something deep inside himself. Containing it. Controlling it. Concealing his emotions very well --if he even felt any at all. He was merely thinking. Just thinking. For someone so concerned about Lieutenant Arroyo ‘stealing away’ his family, he didn’t seem as upset by the thought of a deranged serial killer infringing upon them in the dead of night.

“He gave her a little angel statue once,” Malcolm muttered, trying another knot in the bloody thread. He couldn’t believe it had all happened under his nose. How could he have been so oblivious to it? It personally insulted him, and it corrupted him with guilt. He was supposed to watch out for his little sister. But he’d been too torpefied and depressed after their father’s arrest. Too foggy in the head. Too stunned with heartbreak.

“How thoughtful,” Dr. Whitly muttered, somewhat sarcastically. “And to think, you were yelling at _me_ for giving her gifts.”

The profiler ignored him, submerging deep into his own thoughts. He ended up muttering his thoughts out loud as he finished the last few sutures and wiped up the rest of the blood from his father’s ribs. “I can't be in multiple places at once. I’m going to see if some friends at work can babysit him while I focus on Sterling.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, son.”

Malcolm looked up. “Why not?”

“If he’s meant to cause a distraction for _you,_ he’s going to cause a distraction for _you,”_ Martin assured. “And if he’s chasing _you_ around, and your _friends_ are chasing _him..._ well, I would worry that he’ll lead your friends right to _us,_ one of these nights.”

He had a point. Pawning Watkins off on another officer wasn't going to work.

“So what should I do?” Malcolm asked.

Martin thought about that, but it didn’t take much thought at all. “I suggest… you let _me_ worry about him.”

Malcolm furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Let me rekindle something with him,” Dr. Whitly asked, nodding. “Occupy his time. Keep tabs on him for you.”

Malcolm immediately had a bad feeling about that suggestion, and he shook his head.

Dr. Whitly continued to advocate, “I can distract him, so he doesn’t distract you.”

Malcolm declined, “No.”

There would _never_ be a scenario where he would accept that plan of action. Never.

Watkins was his father’s old _killing_ partner. It was impossible for him to be anything better than a bad influence on Dr. Whitly. The profiler felt nauseous at the mere thought of those two being together again. He saw The Junkyard Killer as an old alcoholic friend that was bound to steal his sobered father away from him and tempt him back into some dark, manic place.

“No,” he repeated, still shaking his head. “I want you two to stay as far away from each other as possible.”

Surprisingly, Dr. Whitly didn’t push the idea. He left it alone and raised his hands in surrender. “Alright. It was only a suggestion.” He stood up with a sore sigh. “Just trying to help you out, in whatever limited way I can.”

“You can help by staying away from him,” Malcolm assured, following him to the mirror above the sink. “And staying out of trouble in general.”

“Nevertheless, trouble seems to find me,” Martin muttered, examining the case-in-point in the mirror.

That sentence was chillingly familiar to the profiler.

“Well, look at that. It’s almost as if I _did_ do it myself.” Dr. Whitly arrogantly complimented. He tossed a smirk over his shoulder. “Good work, son.”

Malcolm washed his hands before sanitizing and putting the needle away. Then he grabbed the antiseptic gel and dressings. “You need to let that heal for a couple days,” he commanded, applying the finishing touches on his father’s repaired skin. “That means no leaving this motel room. Tomorrow I’ll go tell Rico what happened, and that you won’t be able to come to work for a while.”

Martin’s smile fell, and he protested, “I have to make a living, son _."_

“I’ll reimburse you.” The profiler gave one last look at the patch of gauze on his father’s side and then set the rest of the supplies down on the table outside the bathroom door. “Consider it a paid vacation.”

Dr. Whitly’s left arm dropped, along with his spirits. “What am I supposed to do all day in here?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Watch TV? I don't know. You’ll find something to entertain yourself.” He continued tidying up, preparing to leave.

Martin followed after him. “I’ve just spent twenty years cooped up inside a room, Malcolm.”

“Therefore, a few more days will be nothing in comparison,” the profiler chirped optimistically.

Dr. Whitly watched him pack up, saddened.

Malcolm put away the medical supplies, cleaned up any residue of blood in the bathroom, and stuffed his father’s bloodied shirt and jacket in the plastic Rite-Aid bag.

When the boy appeared to be finished, Dr. Whitly sighed, “Well, we _almost_ had a normal day together, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm sighed too, giving the man a weary nod. “We almost did.”

It had been a long, eventful day. It was a shame that it had to end the way it did. Operating that tile saw together seemed like such a distant memory. There was little that either of them could do or say to bring back that fleeting glimpse of normalcy. Still, they exchanged small smirks at the inescapable ridiculousness of their very unusual lives.

Malcolm’s ‘goodbye’ came in the form of an authoritative warning, though he delivered it with a controlled smile. “Stay here. Rest. I mean it.”

Dr. Whitly smiled back, and tiredly joked, “No promises.”

Malcolm tuned and left, the Rite-Aid bag hanging from his fingers.

The plaid shirt and black jacket were later tossed into the laundry machine in his penthouse. Malcolm’s own dirty button-up shirt joined them. The articles of clothing tumbled around each other as red blood mixed with blue detergent. Before long, the crimson stains were entirely washed away --as if they were never there.


	10. Chapter 10

Malcolm did not sleep.

Sitting in the swivel chair at his new desk, he clacked around on his laptop, a notepad by his wrist and the whiteboard propped up against the wall. It was a desk he’d vowed to use for catching murderers, which was only fitting, considering its previous owner. It had been rehabilitated, like the man who used to own it. Once, it served evil. Now, it served good.

He scoured the online records for more information about both Everett Sterling and Judge Van de Kamp, researching everything he could about each of them so he was equipped with the context and details he might need to do his job. Knowledge was power, and Malcolm’s mind was a natural sponge for it.

Malcolm took a break from his reading and note-taking only to answer to the musical dinging of the washing machine. Immersed in his thoughts, he folded the clothes nicely on his unused bed. He then fetched his bottle of antibiotics and placed them next to the fresh plaid shirt and clean black jacket so he wouldn't forget to deliver the medication to his father when he returned his clothes.

The profiler’s hand lingered on the small pile of his father’s possessions.

Malcolm stood there, staring at them, thinking.

Then, he moved to his shelves. After careful deliberation, the consultant picked out a couple of books that he believed his father would find interesting to read during his recovery. Something to entertain his intelligent mind and occupy his time while he rested. The ex-inmate had gone from having two giant bookcases full of reading material to having none at all. The books were neatly added to the pile on his bed.

* * *

A gentle knock rapped on the door to the NYPD conference room. “Bright?”

Malcolm scrambled to hide some of the technology and paperwork strewn about the large table, but he wasn't quick enough to clean up his mess before Detective Powell walked inside.

“Is this your office now?” she joked, taking in the sight of his cluttered workstation, which included two bulky laptops, two cases of signal receivers, some boxes of files that were color-coded blue, and a USB data collector.

He tried to laugh. “No, I was just… um.”

Dani noticed he was trying to hide one laptop screen from her. She furrowed her brow. “What are you doing?” A second glance at all the equipment laid out in front of him yielded the truth. “Malcolm, these files aren’t from our department.” Neither were the laptops, or signal receivers. “You’re not supposed to have any of this. Where did you even--?”

Malcolm sighed and explained, “The Junkyard Killer is being released from Rikers this afternoon, and I need to keep track of him.” He allowed her to see the laptop screen, which displayed the program that would track the man’s ankle monitor once it was activated.

“Why can’t you just let his probation officer do that?”

“Because it’s my fault he was freed,” Malcolm attested. It was a much simpler explanation than ‘his probation officer is under The Devil’s thumb.’ 

“Malcolm--”

The profiler’s eyes pleaded with her as he emphasized, “I can’t let him hurt anyone again, Dani.”

After a moment, she pursed her lips in thought and nodded, “I get that.” With a layer of disappointment, she cast her gaze over the stolen equipment again. Bright was doing Bright things, and there was no stopping him.

“Well. Don’t let anyone else see you with this stuff,” she advised. “If Lieutenant McLeod gets wind of it, he will  _ definitely _ suspend your ass.”

“I’m sure he’d be all too eager,” Malcolm muttered.

Dani was about to leave, but she hesitated, and lingered to ask, “Is there... anything I could do to help?”

He appreciated the offer, but he knew he’d be putting her at risk of getting suspended too if he enlisted her help with his new babysitting job. “Don’t tell McLeod,” he answered with a humored grin.

She smirked at him and promised, “I won’t. So long as you don’t get yourself in trouble again.”

He chuckled, grateful for her compliance and concern. “I will call for backup, if I need it,” he vowed somewhat convincingly.

Dani smiled and left him to his work.

After she closed the door behind her, Malcolm’s smile fizzled out. He felt as if he should have said something more to her. He felt as if she should have tried to salvage their conversation about Valentine’s Day, and asked her out. But he just couldn't. Not yet. Not now. He didn't know what he was waiting for. For himself to be in a better place? For things to calm down and become more normal?

Things would never calm down and become more normal. One day, it’d be too late for him to say anything more to her, or to ask her out. One day he’d see her with someone else, having missed his chance.

But he tried not to think about any of that. Not yet. Not now.

A red dot came online, glowing ominously on the laptop screen. Malcolm watched it move across the satellite map from Rikers Island to the Watkins’ house.

* * *

The laptop remained open in the passenger seat of his black sedan, beside the humble pile of his father’s clothes, antibiotics, and books. Malcolm frequently glanced over at the tracking application as he drove, perhaps fearful that one of these times when he returned his gaze onto it, the red dot would be gone, or migrating to a new location.

The dot remained obediently over the Watkins’ house, as if it knew it was being watched.

Malcolm pulled up to the curb and parked the car. Outside the window, a different house stood. Rico, Tio, and Hijo were on the roof, ripping up old shingles and replacing them with new ones. Malcolm took a deep breath, gathering the courage to leave that laptop unsupervised in the car.

Rico was upset to hear that Martin wouldn’t be able to come to work for a few days. Malcolm explained that he’d had surgery recently and his wound had reopened. Hijo was sympathetic, and Tio couldn’t care less, but Rico seemed to struggle to believe that it was the truth, and not an excuse. He ranted in angry Spanish about how the last thing he needed was a flaky employee who caused them trouble, but Malcolm assured him that wasn't what was happening. After some hard work on the profiler’s part, Rico finally supposed that Martin’s absence was ‘fine.’ and that they’d just have to manage without him for a few days.

As old shingles dropped to the grass beside him, Malcolm called up to wish them a good day and then returned to his sedan. The conversation had taken much longer than he’d anticipated, and he was eager to return to the laptop.

Fortunately, the red dot was still at John's house. Malcolm sighed and relaxed, starting the car. He’d be glued to that screen for the next week, captivated by that red dot. It was a sentence he’d brought on himself, and he accepted his new responsibility without complaint. Diligence was a small price to pay to ensure no one else was hurt because of his actions.

* * *

When Malcolm pulled up to the motel, he closed the laptop and slipped it into his duffel bag, along with his father’s things. His sudden and unannounced entrance startled his father, who was lounging on one of the beds, but the man relaxed and sagged against the headboard once more. “Ah, Malcolm,” Dr. Whitly exhaled. “You should really knock first, son. What if I had a  _ girl _ over?”

Malcolm gave him a look that was in the same family as a glare. He glanced at the television, which was flashing with some medical drama. “I see you figured out the Roku.”

“I did! I’m on season four of Grey’s Anatomy,” Martin declared proudly, settling in to continue watching the show.

Malcolm rolled his eyes and dropped his bag on the second bed.

“Medical inaccuracies aside, it’s quite good. And very dramatic,” his father critiqued optimistically. He lifted his eyebrows and drawled, “I particularly enjoyed the  _ bomb _ episode.”

Malcolm hummed with slightly less enthusiasm, “I’m glad you’re staying occupied.” 

And in one place.

“What about you?” Dr. Whitly asked, watching Malcolm zip open his bag. “What have you been up to?” As Malcolm pulled out the bug equipment they’d tried out together the other day at the construction site, he made an educated guess. “Working?”

“Yep.”

“Any new murder cases?”

“Nope,” Malcolm answered, setting the equipment for the tiny camera aside. “I’ve been working on  _ our _ case.”

_ “Our _ case?” Dr. Whitly repeated. “Oh, I like the sound of that,” he purred with a warm fondness in his tone.

Malcolm ignored him. “I stopped by the construction site and told Rico you were out for the count for a few days.”

“How’d he take it?”

“He was a little...” Malcolm shrugged. “Worried. But everything’s fine.”

Dr. Whitly grinned. “Worried,’ huh?”

Malcolm smiled, but didn’t elaborate.

“What else did you do today?” Martin asked, his eyes flickering to the duffel bag, which certainly had more exciting secrets hiding within it that he was desperately curious about.

Malcolm did well to keep the rest of the stolen NYPD equipment well-buried. He didn’t want to tell his father John was out, believing that keeping him in the dark would somehow protect him. Would somehow prevent him from wandering back into dark places with his old killing buddy.

“Not much,” the profiler lied. “I slept in pretty late today.”

Truthfully, he hadn’t slept at all.

His father smiled. The stretched expression seemed to say he  _ knew _ Malcolm was lying. The Surgeon responded with a, “So did I,” trading lies for lies.

Malcolm furrowed his brow at his father’s blatant fib, but figured Dr. Whitly was just trying to spook him. Making a playful jab at his claim that he’d ‘slept in.’ The profiler moved on from the conversation, unwilling to be pressed about what he actually did this morning, and in turn, not pressing his father about his own activities.

“I washed your clothes.” Malcolm pulled them out of the bag and tossed them to the other bed. Dr. Whitly caught them, spreading open the plaid shirt to see that the blood was completely washed out of it.

Next, Malcolm tossed over a bottle of prescription pills, which Martin did not expect and poorly caught against his chest. At the man’s perplexed expression, the consultant explained, “Some antibiotics. Also….” He unearthed his last gift --a small stack of books-- and walked over to hand them to his father. “I thought you might want something to read.”

The Surgeon regarded the novels warily and hesitated to accept them, as if they were a trick. But they were not a trick. Eventually, he hummed a lost, “Oh,” and remarked, “That’s... very kind of you, son.”

Malcolm shook his head and shrugged, walking back to the other bed as his father examined the books. “They would have just been sitting on my shelf otherwise,” he muttered. “How’s the sutures?” he asked, quickly moving on.

Dr. Whitly tried to pull his attention off the books, which appeared very interesting indeed, and answered in distracted spurts, “Good. Pussing a little, but... that’s expected.” He laid the books down in his lap and then looked over the bottle of antibiotics. “These will help.”

Malcolm nodded.

“Thank you,” his father added.

Malcolm glanced at him with a half smile, but his expression said ‘don't mention it.’

Dr. Whitly grinned devilishly at him, humored by the profiler’s small act of forbidden kindness. But he didn’t make a big deal out of it, and Malcolm appreciated that.

“Are we still good for tomorrow night?” the consultant asked, changing the topic.

Martin’s smile sobered as he identified, “The meeting,” and sank into his thoughts for a moment.

The meeting of killers.

Malcolm stared at him, a cautious hope in his eyes.

“...Yes,” Dr. Whitly decided, glancing back up at Malcolm and nodding. “Be here by five. We’ll leave at six.”

Malcolm tried not to smile, but it was difficult. Finally, his father was trusting him. He was adhering to his promise, and he was helping him solve the case.

_ Their  _ case.

The Surgeon shifted against the pillow behind his back, his eyes darting to the duffel bag of spyware on the other bed. “What’s the range on that little… camera of yours?” he inquired.

“I’ll park a couple blocks away,” Malcolm assured, knowing what he was getting at.

Dr. Whitly hesitated, then nodded, lost in thought. “Good. That will be fine.”

Malcolm could read him like a book. He smirked lightly as he asked, “Are you still nervous?”

His father didn’t reply, still eyeing the duffel bag.

“It’s going to be alright, dad.”

After a long sigh, Martin tore his gaze away and placed it back on the television. “I’m not... worried about  _ Sterling,”  _ he muttered. “I’m worried about  _ you.” _

Malcolm felt a twinge of something warm in his chest. It made him scoff, “I’ll be okay.”

“You will stay in the car,” Dr. Whitly warned. He wasn't worried about the boy’s  _ safety, _ necessarily. He was worried about his proclivity for diving headfirst into trouble as opposed to anchoring securely onto dry land.

Malcolm chuckled and agreed, “I will stay in the car.”

“I mean it.” His father shot him a glare, demanding in a parental tone, “You will _not_ come out of that car. Do you understand?”

Malcolm reigned back his grin, and nodded reverently, vowing, “I will stay in the car. I promise.”

Dr. Whitly soaked in his promise, then nodded, believing him. Trusting him.

Malcolm zipped up the duffel bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Until tomorrow, then,” he concluded merrily, turning for the motel door.

“Your sister’s about to do her evening show,” Martin piped up, already clicking through the buttons on the remote to change the source of the television. “Stay and watch with me,” he invited.

Malcolm hovered near the door, but decided to accept the invitation with some reluctance. He was itching to get back to the car and pull out his laptop to check on the red dot. Every minute he wasn’t watching it was a minute that gnawed at his nerves and irritated his anxiety. But he supposed he could wait just a few minutes more. He took a seat at the foot of the second bed, but kept the duffel bag slung over one shoulder. 

Ainsley’s story in the evening newscast was good. It was a five minute special about the history of stem cell research and its claimed potential to treat certain cancers, in light of a recent proposal to continue the work at Johns Hopkins. The reporter mainly focused on the history of controversy behind such studies, doing an appropriate job of explaining and highlighting both sides of the argument.

It was somewhat of a boring story, for Malcolm's taste, but Martin enjoyed it. By the time it was over, the man was glowing with pride. “She did a wonderful job,” he complimented. “A lot of work goes into that kind of thing, you know.”

“Yeah, she did great,” Malcolm agreed frivolously, standing from the edge of the bed. Before he could repeat his ‘goodbye,’ Dr. Whitly suggested, “You should call her. Tell her that.”

Malcolm held back an impatient sigh and turned to look at his father. The man bore an expression that seemed to try to remind him of something.

_ “I do hope you understand that family is everything. Trust me, you don’t want to look back one day, when it’s too late, and wish you’d spent less time obsessing over… other things.” _

Malcolm thought back on those words, and his impatience dissipated. He remembered the promise he’d made the day prior, that he would check up on Ainsley more often, and be better about being there for her. He’d meant what he’d said, and now, he had a chance to take action on his words.

When the profiler pulled out his smartphone, Dr. Whitly smiled delightedly and pounded the ‘volume down’ button on his remote, until the television was silent. Malcolm returned to the second bed, sitting on the edge and placing his phone on the nightstand between them. It was on speaker. He put a finger to his lips and gave his father a stern, pointed look. Dr. Whitly zipped his own lips shut, but his smile strengthened. The phone rang audibly a few times before Ainsley picked up the call.

“What’s up?” the blonde’s voice rang pleasantly through the room.

“Hey Ains,” Malcolm greeted. He smiled up at his dad as he said, “I saw your story. You did great.”

Martin enthusiastically (and silently) concurred.

Malcolm’s smile brightened as he watched how excited his father was to listen in on the conversation. The man wasn’t able to call her and tell her these things himself anymore, since he was supposed to be ‘dead.’ Perhaps Malcolm wasn't just doing this for Ainsley. Perhaps he was doing this for their father, too.

“You were watching me?” There was some sort of touched  _ awe _ in the journalist’s voice.

“I was,” Malcolm grinned, smiling down at the phone along with Dr. Whitly.

Ainsley scoffed happily, “So  _ that’s _ what it meant!”

Malcolm hesitated, uncertain as to what she was referring to. “What?”

“The card that came with the flowers today. It said ‘See you tonight.’” Ainsley chided in a humored tone.

Malcolm furrowed his brow, and looked at his father. “You got another bouquet of flowers?” he asked his sister.

Martin was just as surprised as he was, and met his gaze with a small glare of confusion, and a shake of his head. The gift hadn’t come from him, this time.

“Yeah, I did...” Ainsley’s trailing voice sighed once she figured, “You didn’t send those ones either, did you?”

“No, I… I didn’t send you flowers,” Malcolm mumbled, lost in his perplexed thoughts.

Dr. Whitly studied the worry on Malcolm's face, his own expression reflecting it.

“Then I guess you were right. I’ve got a stalker. Yay,” the blonde grumbled sarcastically. “Just what I need.”

“They came with a card this time?” Malcolm winced, requesting elaboration. She’d said it read,  _ ‘See you tonight.’ _

Ainsley didn’t elaborate. “Never mind, Malcolm.”

He could tell she was about to end the call. Quickly, he asked, “W-what shop were they from?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just toss ‘em in the trash,” she grumbled disappointedly. “I’m gonna head home now. Bye.”

The reporter hung up. The screen went dark.

Malcolm blinked, his voice hushed in fearful wonder. “Ainsley got another bouquet of flowers....”

Dr. Whitly furrowed his brow and slowly sat up, abandoning his lounging position. “From your mother, perhaps?”

Malcolm shook his head.

Dr. Whitly waited for the profiler to come up with some possible explanation, but the boy didn’t. “Then, from  _ who?” _ Martin pressed, his concerned curiosity killing him.

Suddenly, Malcolm pulled the laptop out of his bag and opened it, hurrying to reboot the tracking software.

The red dot had moved.


	11. Chapter 11

The red dot was at Ainsley’s news station.

“Shit.” Malcolm snatched up his phone and dialed the reporter’s number again. Meanwhile, Dr. Whitly carefully eased himself out of bed and stepped over to look at the laptop screen from behind the profiler’s shoulder.

“What’s that?” the doctor asked, pointing curiously at the marker on the map. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good, based on the sheer panic that had washed over his son like a flash flood. The boy’s dam of composure had burst open, and now it seemed all of his fears had been unleashed.

“That’s John,” Malcolm snapped distractedly.

_ “What?” _

“This is what’s tracking his ankle monitor,” the profiler hissed, holding his phone to his ear. It rang, but his sister did not pick up. The consultant’s heart jack hammered against his chest as he tried calling her again.

“John was released  _ today?” _ Martin wailed. “Why didn't you tell me it was _ today? _ You just said it was soon! I didn't think it was  _ that _ soon!”

Malcolm ignored him and begged under his breath, “Pick up, pick up.” Unfortunately, his prayers were only answered by a pre-recorded voicemail message. Malcolm frantically redialed for a third time.

As he did, his father gestured to the laptop again and asked, “The cops are watching over her, right?”

Malcolm hesitated before admitting, “No.”

Dr. Whitly appeared as if he’d been struck across the face.  _ “No??” _

“No, I told her-- I thought--  _ I fucked up, okay?!” _ Malcolm cried, his mental state starting to unravel.

Ainsley’s news station was back on the island of Manhattan, and he was thirty minutes away, in New Jersey. There was nothing he could do to reach her in time to protect her. All he could do was watch that glowing red dot inch closer and closer on that laptop screen.

Finally, the reporter answered his call, and Malcolm brought himself under control enough to bark clearly and urgently into the phone, “Ainsley! Don't leave the building!”

“Um, too late, I’m at my car.”

“Is anyone around you?” Malcolm demanded. His gaze was glued to the red dot. It stared back at him with the heat of the devil’s eye. Dr. Whitly hovered behind him like his shadow, on the fringes of the ominous red light’s glow.

“Nnnno,” she drawled. “Why? What’s wrong?”

The profiler took a breath and explained, “Someones coming for you.” He knew he wasn't going to have time to give her the full rundown, so he got right to the point. “You need to get out of there, Ains. Quick.”

“Who? Who’s--?”

“Just get out of there!” Malcolm cried. In a hurry, he put her on speaker phone, sent another harsh motion of ‘be quiet’ to the man hovering behind his shoulder, and then sent a text to Detective Powell. It read,  _ ‘John after Ainsley. Direct Nation Broadcast House. Now.’ _

Dani texted back,  _ ‘On it.’ _

“M-my car won’t start.” The uneasiness in Ainsley’s voice echoed through the motel room. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it!”

“What’s it doing?” Malcolm questioned, as if he could help her solve the malfunction. It wouldn't do any good, for he wasn’t a mechanic.

But somebody else  _ was. _

“It’s making this awful noise when I turn the key and it’s just… _ it’s just not starting!”  _ Ainsley shouted hysterically.

“John tampered with it,” Dr. Whitly murmured quietly behind the consultant.

The profiler whirled around to throw a terrified look at him, and Dr. Whitly met his gaze with a defeated look of his own. Like it was all over. Like they’d lost. Like the girl was done for.

Malcolm  _ hated _ when his father gave up. He absolutely despised it. It thoroughly angered him, and that anger only fueled his stubborn determination to overcome this. It was _ not _ over. Ainsley was going to be okay, because, “The police are on their way, Ains.” Malcolm attempted to calm his sister’s panic by assuring her, “They're coming.”

But they weren’t the only ones.

The red dot was closing in.

“Malcolm, what the hell is going on?” the reporter demanded, her own dash of anger mingling with her fear.

The red dot had crossed the street to the parking garage.

“Ains, I know who sent you those flowers,” Malcolm’s hands were starting to tremble, and his breath shook, too. “It was John Watkins.”

Over the phone, there was a pause, and then a bewildered shriek of,  _ “What???” _

Malcolm closed his eyes briefly, feeling shame pour over his hot, clammy skin. “He was released from prison today.”

_ “Why???” _

“I-I don't have time to explain, but--” Malcolm stammered.

He was shaking too much. He was losing his grip on himself, losing his strength, losing his  _ mind.  _ He now realized that he’d made a critical mistake. He now realized that his father’s words,  _ ‘John tampered with it,’ _ not only applied to his sister’s car, but also the ankle monitor itself.  Malcolm had put so much faith into that stupid device that he didn’t stop to consider that John was a  _ mechanic. _ He’d been disassembling and reassembling cars for decades --an ankle monitor would be a piece of cake to modify in comparison. Malcolm himself had learned how to do it a matter of hours when he worked for the FBI, and if John had been assigned an older model --which Sterling had undoubtedly ensured-- then the damn thing would be even easier to remove without triggering an alarm.

Malcolm had been watching a stationary decoy all day long while John had prepared this attack, and done God knows what else in the meantime. Now, The Junkyard Killer was using it to torment him, knowing he was watching. 

How could he have let this happen?

Malcolm’s hopeless train of thought was interrupted as his father hissed under his breath, “Does she have a weapon?”

The consultant whirled around to look at him again. “What?”

“A weapon! Does she have a weapon with her!?” the man whispered urgently.

“Ains, do you have any kind of weapon with you?” Malcolm asked. If she did, she was going to need to use it.

“Are you kidding me right now!?” the reporter retorted. That was a ‘no.’

“No, Ains, I’m not!” Panic was thick in Malcolm’s throat. He knew exactly what he was about to hear. He was about to hear his sister scream. He was about to hear her die.

Dr. Whitly seemed to move for the phone, then thought better of it and moved for the profiler instead. Malcolm froze as the man stooped to cup a hand against his ear and murmur into it. “Tell her everything I say. She needs to make noise.”

The consultant hesitated, then spoke, transferring the message. “Ains, listen to me, you need to make noise.”

“Lots of noise.”

“Lots of noise,” Malcolm echoed. He continued serving as a translator for his father. “Can you activate your car alarm?”

“No, I can’t,” Ainsley’s voice answered fearfully. “It’s not working!”

“Are there cars around you?”

“Y-yes--?”

“Hit them,” Dr. Whitly ordered. Malcolm delivered his command, and continued conveying, "Hard. With anything. As hard as you can, Ains. Do it now.”

There was silence on the phone, until a smack and the resulting blare of a car alarm took the place of the reporter’s voice. Malcolm waited with bated breath, until the series of noises repeated.

The red dot was nearing the center of the parking garage.

His father kept whispering to him, and Malcolm picked up the phone to call into the speaker, “More! Ains, you need to make more noise! Don’t stop! Hit as many as you can!”

His sister listened to him, and the sounds grew exponentially louder as the reporter activated the surrounding vehicles’ shock sensors. A small cacophony rose up from the phone, threatening to blow its speakers. Malcolm tapped his volume down so as not to wake their neighbors in the motel, then held the device up to his free ear.

The red dot halted.

Then, it began to slowly move away.

Malcolm exhaled in relief as he watched the threat retreat, and praised, “Okay. Good, good, he’s leaving, good job, Ains!”

Dr. Whitly departed from the profiler’s ear and stood up with a simmering glare pinned on the laptop screen, watching the red dot flee.

A distant song of police sirens attempted to mingle with the raging racket of the beaten cars. Through all the noise, Malcolm strained to hear Ainsley’s voice ask, “What did you say?”

“It worked,” he repeated, calling loudly into the phone so she could hear him. “You’re safe, Ains.”

“How do you know all of this, Malcolm!? What the fuck is going on!?”

Malcolm sighed and assured, “I can explain. I can explain, Ains, I’ll….”

But his hopelessness returned, and as he sheepishly glanced up at The Surgeon, the profiler finished making a heavy promise to his sister.

“I’ll explain everything.”


End file.
